


Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

by Sarah_Black



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Character Development, Cyvasse (ASoIaF), Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Diplomacy, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, House Tyrell, I tried to keep death to a minimum, Jealousy, King Stannis Baratheon, King's Landing, Medieval Medicine, Murder Mystery, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Sansa Stark, Politics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sansa Stark Deserves Better, Sansa Stark-centric, Slow Burn, Tarth (ASoIaF), Teen Angst, Tournaments, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wedding Night, a long engagement, beware of spoilers in the chapter titles, but this is ASOIAF, did I mention there is more plot than I intended?, more plot than i intended, protect shireen baratheon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 243,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black
Summary: Ned doesn't go to Cersei with a warning. He goes to Dragonstone.
Relationships: Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3065
Kudos: 2079





	1. Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the story!
> 
> I started writing this in 2017 after I first finished reading the ASOIAF books. However, this fic ended up being waaaaay more plot heavy than I was ready to deal with back then, so I didn't finish the draft until the spring of 2020. (The whole pandemic thing gave me some free time.)
> 
> This fic has not been beta read, but I have had some suggestions/creative input from [BlueCichlid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid), which was wonderfully, wonderfully helpful. ♥ 
> 
> All mistakes, plot holes, and general weirdness should be blamed on me.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I'm just playing in GRRM's sandbox.

It was obvious to Sansa that her father had argued with Lord Stannis again. His lips were thin and his shoulders were stiff, and she had to say ‘Father’ more than once before he looked up.

His eyes were tired. “What is it, Sansa?”

“I want to know when we’re going to leave,” she said, using her most dignified tone of voice. For the first few days on Dragonstone she had been unable to help crying, and Father hadn’t listened to her when she had begged to be allowed to go back to King’s Landing. To her _betrothed._ Perhaps he would listen if she spoke to him like Mother: calmly. Like a lady.

“I wish I could tell you that,” Father sighed, “but I can’t leave as things stand. I must help King Stannis set things right.”

Sansa shook her head, her face growing warm. “Joffrey -”

“Joffrey was never Robert’s son, Sansa,” Father said, his eyes still tired, but sad now, too. “You said it yourself. They look nothing alike.”

“That’s because he looks like the _queen._ His _mother._ I look more like Mother than you. Why -”

“Listen to me,” Father said, cutting her off. He still looked tired, but there was a sharpness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “King Stannis and Lord Arryn found proof. _I_ found proof. Joffrey is a bastard. All of Cersei’s children are bastards. You are no longer betrothed to Joffrey. I will find you a better husband. When you’re older.”

 _There is no one better than Joffrey. My golden prince._ Sansa clung to the thought, but it did not comfort her like it would have once. It had been nearly a week since they had fled King’s Landing and she’d had too much time to think. As much as she wanted to believe that it was all a nightmare - that it was all a lie - she knew her father had no reason to lie about something like this. He was not playing a game with her feelings. _If Father says Joffrey is a bastard… it must be true._

“I want to go home,” Sansa whispered, hugging herself.

“Me too,” Father said, taking a step closer and wrapping his arms around her. Sansa buried her face in his doublet and inhaled. He did not quite smell right. The scents of the north were missing. Here on Dragonstone he smelled of the ocean, and faintly of rotten eggs. The whole island smelled faintly of rotten eggs. Father said the smoke from the mountain was to blame. But there was still a familiar smell to him that was _always_ present when he held her, and she loved it well.

When Father released her, Sansa took a step back and looked at his face. He seemed a little less tired now. 

“Is there going to be a war?” she asked, her stomach twisting up inside her. She had been so little last time there had been a war that she couldn’t remember very much at all, but if she tried, if she closed her eyes and really _tried_ , she thought she could remember Mother being sad and afraid.

 _Or maybe that’s just what Robb said it was like,_ Sansa thought, worrying at her lower lip.

Father lifted a hand to his forehead and rubbed at the crease between his eyebrows. “I don’t know.”

 _Yes,_ a fearful voice inside her spoke. _He means yes._

***

“By rights Shireen should be my heir,” Lord Stannis said, his usual scowl firmly in place. “Unless Selyse should finally give me a son.”

“Cat wrote that Renly might agree to support your claim if you make him your heir ahead of the girl,” Father said. He sounded as if he’d said it before. Many times.

Sansa wasn’t trying to drop eaves, but she could not help that the two men had walked into the sept as she had been praying. She was not hidden from view. If they did not wish for her to hear what they were saying, they need only send her away.

Stannis made an irritated sound. “Renly’s support should be unconditional. I am Robert’s rightful heir.”

“He has the strength of Highgarden and the stormlands at his back.”

“I have the strength of the north and the riverlands. The Vale, possibly, if your wife’s sister can be persuaded. The stormlands are mine by rights, I have most of the royal fleet, and if the need arises, I could still send for that shadowbinder.”

“I would not count on the Vale, Your Grace. Not if half of what Baelish confessed was true.”

“May rats feast on his corpse,” Stannis spat. “Peddler of human flesh. Never explaining where he managed to get the coin for Robert’s foolish indulgences…”

“It seems that he went largely overlooked at court. Even I underestimated him.” Her father had never sounded more tired to her ears.

“And why should anything have been expected of him?” Stannis was clearly affronted. “He was no one. From the _Fingers._ ”

“It does not matter now. He’s dead.” Her father’s voice rang with an awful finality that sent a shiver down her spine. “And as I said, Lysa is unlikely to support anyone at all in this war. Cat says she was half mad when she saw her.”

Stannis gnashed his teeth. “You mean when she took the dwarf to her? And then _lost_ him?”

“No one lost him,” her father argued. “You know as well as I do how the trial went. And it’s no real loss. We have a more valuable hostage now.”

Sansa wondered who they were talking about. They had to be someone very important if they were more valuable than Tyrion Lannister.

Stannis grunted. “The stormlands are still mine by rights.”

“Yes, the stormlords owe you their allegiance, but they have no love for you. Renly has been their lord for Robert’s entire reign. They love him.”

Sansa wasn’t surprised by her father’s words. Having met both Renly and Stannis, she knew quite well that Renly was the more charming man. _He would make a handsome, splendid king._

Stannis made another irritated sound, but said nothing.

“You have told me that you value honesty, Your Grace,” Father said. “Let me be honest with you now. I believe Renly would seek to crown himself King of the Seven Kingdoms if it were not for the support you have in the north and in the riverlands.”

Sansa’s heart stopped beating for a moment. It was one thing for her to have idle thoughts about what a handsome king Renly might make, but quite another for a younger brother to presume to usurp the rights of an elder.

“Absurd.”

“He as much as told me before we left King’s Landing. And shadowbinder or no shadowbinder, this war will not be won if you cannot find a way to work together.”

There was a drawn out silence. Sansa did not dare move.

“I will think on this, Lord Stark,” Stannis said at length, whirling around and marching out of the sept, his footsteps echoing loudly.

“Sansa?” Father said, seemingly noticing her for the first time.

Sansa rose up and brushed the dust from her skirts. Her knees ached a little from kneeling on the stone floor, but she ignored the pain. It would fade soon. “Father.”

“You were praying?”

“To the Crone,” Sansa said, nodding. “For guidance.”

“We could all use some guidance.” Father’s eyes were far away.

“Will Stannis and Renly fight each other?” Sansa asked, falling into step with her father as he made for the door Stannis had disappeared through. He offered her his arm and she took it.

“I certainly hope not,” her father said slowly. “Tywin Lannister is not an enemy to be trifled with. Stannis and Renly must work together if they are to have any hope of defeating his armies and taking King’s Landing.”

“Then they should work together,” Sansa said. It was obvious. 

Father gave a short bark of laughter, but his eyes were unamused. “That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? ‘The iron gauntlet and the silk glove’. They’d be unstoppable.” He sighed. “But first we must convince them to make peace with one another. Not an easy task. They remind me of you and your sister more often than not. But I think they will.” Father stroked her hair. “Eventually.” He shot her a small smile that would have reassured Sansa more if he hadn’t just compared Stannis and Renly to her and Arya.

“Arya wants to fight in the war,” Sansa said, wrinkling her nose. “She thinks that just because you let her dancing teacher come with us that she’ll be allowed to become some sort of knight.” Sansa wasn’t sure why she still called Syrio a dancing teacher. She knew that he was teaching Arya to fight with that silly sword of hers.

“Your sister will not be allowed to fight in the war,” Father assured her.

“No respectable lord will marry her if she runs around in breeches and waves swords about all the time,” Sansa said, thinking of that awful day by the Trident. If only Arya could have behaved herself. Things would have been so different if she hadn’t been playing at swords with that butcher’s boy that day. Lady would still be alive.

 _It wasn’t her fault,_ Sansa reminded herself. _She was only playing._

Really it was all Joffrey’s fault. He was a _bastard._ Not the way Jon was a bastard, either. Jon was _good._ Joffrey was like all the bastards in the songs, Sansa had decided. Craven and treacherous. She wasn’t upset that she wouldn’t be his wife. She _wasn’t._

“Let me worry about your sister’s marriage prospects,” Father said lightly.

“Very well, Father,” she said, mustering all the dignity she could.

***

A lot of people died in the year of the war.

Not just knights and men-at-arms, either. The way Sansa understood it, most of the people who died were innocent smallfolk whose only crime was to get in the way.

A lot of people died _after_ the war, too. Once Stannis had taken King’s Landing there were trials and executions. Sansa saw Cersei being led to the chopping block - the last of the Lannisters if one did not count Tommen and Myrcella - but she hadn’t watched when it… when it happened.

Sansa knew Cersei had committed treason, but the queen had always been so kind to her… and she had been so beautiful and splendid.

Just like Renly had been so handsome and gallant. It wasn’t fair that he had died. He had been meant to marry Lady Margaery Tyrell; Sansa was to have been allowed to attend the wedding. Mother and Father had _promised._ After dour King Stannis died, Renly and Margaery would have been king and queen, and everything would have been like in a song.

“Father?” Sansa asked, carefully putting her knife and fork down and wiping at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. Arya rolled her eyes from across the table. She had her elbow up next to her plate, and was resting her chin on her hand in a most unbecoming manner. Sansa wished Mother would say something about it, but she did not seem to be paying attention. Ever since she had arrived in King’s Landing she had seemed distracted and worried. 

“Yes, sweetling?” Father had barely touched his food. Just like Mother, he always seemed to be distracted these days. Sansa had hoped that things would be better after Mother arrived, but nothing had really changed. Neither one of them ever really explained anything to her. Father had been staring out the window of the dining room, his eyes unfocused. But perhaps that was only because the view was so familiar. They were back in the Tower of the Hand, though Father insisted Stannis would most likely name a new Hand soon. After that they’d be allowed to go home to see Robb, Bran, and Rickon. And Theon too, Sansa supposed. _But not Jon,_ she thought, surprised by the pang of loss she felt. _Jon will be at the Wall._

“What will happen to Lady Margaery?” The Tyrells were all over the Red Keep, outnumbered only by Florents, and Sansa had seen Lord Tyrell speaking with Father and King Stannis more than once over the past few days. She had heard them mention Margaery’s name.

Mother looked up at that, and she and Father looked at one another for a long moment, their eyes troubled. “Some are of the opinion that King Stannis should marry her,” Father said slowly.

Sansa frowned, wondering who might be of that opinion. _Lord Tyrell, probably._ “King Stannis is already wed to Queen Selyse.”

“I know.” Father sighed, his eyes flitting over to Arya who was not showing their conversation much interest. 

Mother gave her a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it, sweetling. It will all be all right. Lady Margaery will be well taken care of.”

Could the Tyrells really expect King Stannis to put the queen aside? It didn’t seem reasonable. Not as Queen Selyse had proven that she could bear children. _But only one daughter._ Sansa bit her lip. There had never been a queen on the Iron Throne. “Do you think His Grace will set Queen Selyse aside?”

“I doubt that very much,” Father said, huffing out a loud breath of air and shaking his head. “Especially not for a Tyrell.”

“Why not?”

Mother and Father shared another glance. “Stannis and the Tyrells don’t get along very well,” Mother said in a gentle tone of voice.

Sansa furrowed her brow. She supposed she could understand why someone might not get along with King Stannis. He was very unpleasant. But he was king now, so everyone had to at least _pretend_ to like him. The Tyrells were all well mannered and gallant, however, so Sansa could not see how anyone might dislike them.

“Lord Tyrell tried to starve Stannis to death.” Sansa looked at Arya, startled by her sudden contribution to the conversation. She was poking at the scraps of food on her plate with a fork. “Maester Luwin said so. There was a siege that lasted for ages and ages, and Stannis had to eat _rats._ ”

“Arya!” Mother scolded.

Sansa’s mouth dropped open for a moment, and the food she had just eaten seemed to come alive inside her, squirming uncomfortably. “Don’t say things like that! That’s _horrible._ ”

“I’m afraid your sister is right,” Father said. He narrowed his eyes at Arya. “Though she should perhaps speak of such matters with more care.”

Arya’s cheeks reddened, and she dropped her elbow off the table and sat up a little straighter.

“Lady Margaery didn’t try to starve His Grace,” Sansa said, willing her stomach to settle back down. “She did nothing wrong.” _Just like Lady did nothing wrong._ Was King Stannis more like his brother than Sansa had imagined? Content to let an innocent take the blame for something they had not done? 

“And I’m sure she will marry a lord of good standing,” Father said, sending her a reassuring smile. 

Mother nodded. “Just like you both will.” She gave Arya a pointed look. “When the time comes.”

Sansa straightened her back, but Arya slumped in her chair and blew out a put-upon sigh.

It was the last time Sansa spoke of Lady Margaery for two years.


	2. A Queen's Death

“Have they told you why we’re going to King’s Landing?” Sansa asked Robb, catching up to him in an empty corridor of the Great Keep. She had been waiting close by his chambers, hoping to speak to him privately before they were both missed at dinner. Grey Wind followed him like a silent shadow, and Sansa greeted him briefly by running a hand through his thick fur.

Her parents had told her they were going south to pay their respects and reaffirm their loyalty to King Stannis. They had said it was important to show the king the support of House Stark in the wake of Queen Selyse’s sudden and unexpected death. Sansa was sure that was true, but she couldn’t help but wonder whether there were additional reasons. House Stark would not be the only House to send representatives to court. And despite the grim occasion, Sansa could not imagine that the opportunity for a marriage market would be allowed to pass by unseized. Why else would her parents be bringing her and Robb, but not Arya, Bran, and Rickon?

_We’re the only ones of a marriageable age._

Well, Arya was old enough to be betrothed, Sansa supposed. _I was betrothed to Joffrey at eleven._ But she didn’t blame her parents for leaving Arya in Winterfell. She was not ready to behave like a proper lady, and Sansa was beginning to doubt that she ever would. Perhaps Septa Mordane would be able to reason with her while they were away, but Sansa thought it much more likely that Arya would continue to ignore everyone and everything except Syrio Forel. 

_She is only truly happy when she is training with him,_ she thought, a strange, sad feeling tugging at her heart. How much longer would Arya be allowed her lessons with the water dancer? Mother had started to make comments. Septa Mordane had been making them for years. Would Father eventually listen?

“We’re to make a show of bending the knee,” Robb said. He seemed perfectly unconcerned. “But I think Father is also hoping to convince King Stannis to send more men to the Wall. I don’t know why, though. We’ve sent so many of our bannermen there already, and everyone knows a northman is worth ten southerners.”

Sansa nodded. If Robb had been told anything about any impending betrothals, he was hiding it well. She decided to keep her suspicions to herself. “I wish Bran could come with us,” she said. Bran could ride so well in his special saddle that he could practically joust. And he loved hearing her and Arya tell stories of the south. “He’d like to see the knights of the Kingsguard.” She closed her eyes, imagining the joy it would bring Bran to see the splendour of court. He would smile the way he always used to smile when he climbed, and she would be right there with him, making sure no one treated him cruelly. He would not have to face the disappointments she had. For him and Summer it would all be perfect.

“Perhaps we could talk Father into it,” Robb said, though he did not look optimistic.

“It would be lovely,” she sighed, knowing deep down that it would not be possible.

“You must be eager to go back.” Robb gave her a sly, sidelong glance. “You will get to wear plenty of pretty new gowns and dazzle all the southron lordlings with your beauty and charm.”

“You will have new things too,” she shot back. _Am I eager to go back?_ Her stomach sank at the thought.

There had been a few shining moments of happiness in the south, true enough. She would never forget the spectacle of her first tourney, the beauty of Queen Cersei’s gowns and jewels, and the exotic foods she had tasted. But she had lost Lady. She’d had to flee to Dragonstone, and remain practically under lock and key for the long months of the war. There had been no tourneys or pageantry, nothing beautiful or splendid. If she had not been able to play instruments herself, there would scarcely have been music. Without Septa Mordane and Jeyne, Sansa was sure she would have gone mad.

Things had been a little better once King Stannis had taken King’s Landing and they had been able to move back to the Red Keep. Though Renly had died in the Battle of Blackwater, his retinue and a part of his household from Storm’s End had come to stay, and even in mourning they were of a more cheerful disposition than the people Stannis surrounded himself with. But the best thing had been when Mother joined them. Sansa didn’t know what she had done if she had flowered without her mother there to comfort her and explain it all.

Heat rushed to her face at the mere memory of that mortifying morning.

Sansa had been happier than she could ever remember being when she returned to Winterfell. She had cried when she’d seen Robb, Bran, and Rickon, and hugged them all as fiercely as she could. She had cried even more when she had seen Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog. They had all grown so big, and today they were even bigger. She often wondered whether Lady would have grown to such a size, given the chance. Sometimes she would entice one of the direwolves to her side with a choice bit of meat, and spend long moments burying her face in their fur, petting them, and whispering to them about their lost sister. Arya did the same thing sometimes. Sansa had seen her.

In Winterfell it was safe for her to roam by herself, visit the godswood, the sept, or any place she fancied. Here, the servants all knew her, and she could still get away with visiting the kitchens and begging for fresh-baked sweets. Here, everyone loved her. And she loved them back with all her heart.

Grey Wind nosed at her cheek as if he knew she had been thinking of him and his siblings. She leaned into the touch.

_No, I am not eager to leave._

“Father says I am to have a new sword,” Robb said proudly, petting Grey Wind’s flank. “Not Valyrian steel of course, but castle-forged. I haven’t decided whether it should be a longsword or a greatsword like Ice, but -”

“How about you? Are you eager to see the south?” she interrupted, not wishing to listen to Robb go on and on about a sword that didn’t even exist yet.

“Naturally,” Robb said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Arya says there are huge dragon skulls in a cellar of the Red Keep. And there’s the Street of Silk, of course. Theon says there are places there where enough gold can make any fantasy come true.”

Sansa blushed. “How would he know? He’s never been. And you should not speak of such things in front of a lady.”

“Why?” Robb grinned. “Will you tell Mother?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I might,” she said, arching a brow at him.

“Well, I humbly beg your pardon, my lady,” Robb said, his eyes still smiling. “Please do forgive me.”

She turned her nose up, pretending to huff, but shot him a quick smile.

He laughed at that, loud and true, shaking his head. 

They were both still smiling when they made it to dinner.

***

Returning to the Great Hall of the Red Keep was stranger than Sansa had imagined. She had thought she would discover it anew, see it from a completely different perspective, and be as overwhelmed by the might of the Iron Throne as she had been the first time she had seen it. But instead it was almost as if she had only been there yesterday.

King Stannis had not changed at all. It seemed he still preferred to wear a scowl rather than a crown, and simple clothing rather than fine doublets with elaborate scrollwork and shining jewels. His Hand was equally plain. That made sense, however, since Lord Davos Seaworth had once been a common smuggler. But though Lord Davos spoke with a Flea Bottom accent, he had always treated Sansa with courtesy and kindness. King Stannis was much less kind. When Sansa, her father, and Arya had been his guests on Dragonstone, Sansa had sometimes attempted to pay him appropriate compliments - as she had been taught to do - but he had always snorted or said something scathing in return. That, or he had ignored her entirely.

Sansa therefore thought it was quite unnerving when he responded very differently to her polite greeting upon their reintroduction.

“... and you remember my daughter Sansa, Your Grace,” Father said after he had presented Mother and Robb. Bran, as she had expected, had not been allowed to come.

Sansa curtseyed deeply and did her best not to show her nerves. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace.”

The hard glare was the same, but rather than scowling and dismissing her words with some curt retort, he nodded quite civilly. “Likewise, my lady.” He said the words in a tone of voice that suggested he had just eaten something sour, but he said them. More than that, he even glanced at her gown for a moment, which he had never done before. On Dragonstone Sansa had often thought that she might as well start wearing the plain sort of dresses that Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen had favoured, or even empty sacks of flour for all he cared. Thankfully she had not worn an empty sack of flour today. She had worn one of the silk gowns her Mother had ordered for her before they left Winterfell. They had been made by expert seamstresses in White Harbour, and were trimmed with genuine Myrish lace. She had chosen the black one with the most modest neckline for the presentation, knowing that the court was in mourning. She had also decided to wear only a few jewels, and nothing ostentatious. A sapphire pendant, and a hairnet with golden threads.

Sansa looked down, blushing under the king’s intense gaze. Thankfully Father started to talk again, and she was allowed to take a step back and fade into the background along with her mother and Robb. Grey Wind had not been allowed into the Great Hall, and Sansa missed him now. It would have been a comfort to sink a hand into his fur.

When her face was less warm, Sansa decided to look around and examine the present courtiers. She recognised a few from her last stay in King’s Landing, but many of the faces were unfamiliar. _The new lords in the West,_ Sansa guessed. House Lannister was not represented, but perhaps Tommen was still considered too young to attend assemblies such as this one. _Or perhaps he has enough sense to keep out of the king’s way._

Sansa could see that there were a lot of Florents and Tyrells in attendance - there were roses and foxes everywhere - and Margaery Tyrell was standing in a prominent place, wearing rather a daring gown for such a somber occasion. Alester Florent had planted himself near the front of the crowd too; his expression as pompous as ever. She also thought she recognised a handful of prominent stormlords and certain notable lords and ladies from the riverlands. Her uncle, Lord Edmure, was there, along with his wife Lady Roslin, and they looked to be getting along very well. Roslin was resting one hand in the crook of Edmure’s elbow, and the other was resting on her swollen belly.

 _Mother was right,_ Sansa thought. _They must have found a measure of affection for each other._

Sansa searched the faces of the lordlings in the throne room. _Am I to wed one of them? Is one of them looking at me and feeling relieved that I am comely?_ Sansa allowed herself to hope for a moment that her husband-to-be was handsome, but was quick to push the thought away. _No one has said that either Robb or I are to be betrothed._ Besides, Septa Mordane always said that all men were comely in their own way. If Sansa did not find her betrothed to be handsome at first sight, she would simply have to look harder.

King Stannis and her father finished their conversation. Lord Davos offered the Starks the hospitality of the Tower of the Hand for the duration of the visit, and Father accepted.

They dined with Lord Davos and his wife, Lady Marya, that very evening.

Lady Marya was not like any lady Sansa had ever met. But she wished she could have met her the last time she had been in the south. She was just as kind as Lord Davos was, and had Sansa feeling quite at home as soon as the first course of dinner arrived.

 _Arya would like her,_ Sansa thought, smiling fondly to herself when Marya ignored the special cutlery meant for the crab and simply ate it with her hands. Lord Davos did the same. Robb grinned and copied them, but Sansa followed her parents’ example and used the cutlery provided.

When dessert had been cleared away, Sansa’s father and Davos started to talk to each other in low voices while her mother and Marya talked more loudly about their youngest sons, comparing notes. Sansa knew she ought not try to listen in on her father’s conversation, but she could not help hearing a word here and there. They were speaking of the Wall, and of the increasingly dire circumstances there. Robb was leaning towards them, obviously wishing to add his own voice to theirs.

Her insides twisted themselves into knots. _Why are men always so eager for war?_

“My Stanny is about your Bran’s age,” Marya said. “He’s a good lad - always making his little brother laugh.”

“I should like to meet him. And your other sons,” Sansa’s mother said, smiling.

“Oh, you must have seen Allard today in the Great Hall.” Marya’s voice was full of pride. “He’s a knight of the Kingsguard now. Serving with Ser Barristan the Bold himself. And you can meet my eldest, Dale, when he returns from sea. He is the king’s master of ships.”

The two women continued to discuss Marya’s many sons, and for a moment Sansa wondered whether she was to wed one of them. She was only a year older than Devan Seaworth, who was serving as the king’s squire.

 _No… I am to wed a lord,_ Sansa thought. Mother and Father had said so often enough when the subject had come up.

“I noticed that House Lannister was not represented at court today,” Father suddenly said, his voice a little louder. He glanced at her mother, clearly meaning to include the ladies in the conversation.

Davos drank from his cup, nodding. “Tommen sent a letter of condolence,” he said, putting his cup down. “But he is not yet eleven, and though Lord Blackberry is doing his best to help and guide the boy, I daresay he has his hands full.”

“Oh?” Sansa’s mother looked intrigued. “Is there some trouble in the westerlands?”

“One could call it trouble,” Davos said, frowning into his cup. “Apparently the Lannister gold mines are not as bottomless as Lord Tywin always made them out to be.”

“They’re not empty, are they?” Robb asked, his eyebrows rising. Behind him, Grey Wind stirred from his nap, raising his head and cocking it curiously to the side.

“Not at all,” Davos said, “but Lord Blackberry has informed the king that the Crown cannot rely on Lannister gold to pay all its debts.”

“Little wonder there are so many Tyrells at court,” Father said, shaking his head and grimacing. “His Grace must be delighted.”

Davos smiled grimly down at the table. “He is not best pleased. The master of coin is even less pleased. Tommen’s fines were supposed to be the solution to all the royal treasury’s problems.”

“I suppose Mace thinks he will finally get what he always wanted now,” Mother said, pursing her lips.

Davos and Father looked at one another, their faces unreadable. 

_Does Lord Tyrell still want to marry Lady Margaery to King Stannis?_ It would explain what Margaery had worn to the Great Hall, Sansa supposed. _She must be trying to catch his eye._ She thought of the king’s sharp gaze and suppressed a shiver. _Better her than me._

Father broke eye contact with Davos and gave a grim little laugh. “He should know better.”

With a glance at her and Robb, Mother straightened in her seat and gave a tight smile. “Well, that’s a subject best left alone for now. How is the princess coping with her mother’s passing?”

“She’s as well as can be expected,” Davos said with a sigh.

“I’d like to offer her my condolences,” Mother said in a heartfelt tone of voice. “Poor thing.”

Davos said he’d see what could be done about arranging a meeting, and the conversation drifted to other matters.

By the time Sansa went to bed she was no closer to finding out whether she would be betrothed soon, though a churning in her stomach kept her awake long after she blew out her last candle.

 _Perhaps I am wrong,_ she thought, though the churning continued. _Perhaps neither Robb or I are to be betrothed after all._

***

“Sansa Stark? Is that you?” Margaery Tyrell’s voice rang out, clear as a bell in the crisp morning air. It was a beautiful day; bright, cloudless, and still even though it was cold.

Sansa and Jeyne both turned to look. It was to be their first free day in the Red Keep, and they had been rediscovering some of their favourite garden paths. Jeyne had heard that if one sought entertainment, Margaery and her various cousins were the ladies to talk to. Jeyne had also heard that the gardens were the place to be if one wanted to encounter Margaery at this time of day. Now that she was proved right, she gave Sansa a very smug look.

She ignored Jeyne’s smugness. She was still not sure they were making a prudent choice by seeking Margaery out. _If she is to become queen it is certainly prudent._ But judging by the way Father had spoken, it seemed unlikely to happen. Might she damage her father’s chances of recruiting more men for the war at the Wall by associating herself with a House the king did not favour?

“Good morning,” Sansa said, greeting Margaery and her companion as they walked up. “How lovely to see you again. Have you met Lady Jeyne Poole?”

“Of course, we were all here after the war,” Margaery said, smiling widely. Sansa doubted that Margaery remembered much of Jeyne. She herself had barely spoken to Margaery at the time, as Margaery had been deep in mourning for Renly. “This is my cousin, Lady Elinor,” Margaery continued, completing the introductions.

Elinor smiled. She was very pretty, but not as richly dressed as Margaery.

“Would you like to join us?” Sansa offered politely. “We’re just exploring, but we would welcome your company.”

“We’d love to,” Margaery said.

They all fell into step, Margaery walking next to Sansa, with Jeyne and Elinor walking just behind them. A pair of household guards trailed after them, one each belonging to the Starks and Tyrells, both looking equally bored and cold.

Sansa was all set to begin a conversation with the usual questions about the roads and the health of their families, but Margaery was quicker. “Have you planned the day?” she asked, all eagerness and excitement.

“Not as yet.”

“Then you must join me and my ladies! We’re going hawking. The weather is just perfect for it!”

“That sounds wonderful,” Jeyne said excitedly from behind, “I’m sure we could go, couldn’t we?”

Sansa wasn’t certain. “I shall have to ask Mother and Father. I think my mother had hoped for a meeting with the princess today, so we might not be free to leave the Keep.”

“I would not hold my breath for an invitation from Princess Shireen,” Margaery said at once. “She hasn’t been seen at court since we arrived, and it’s been at least two weeks.”

“I spoke to a servant about it. She’s really shy, apparently,” Elinor said in a low, important voice. “All those scars…”

“She’s in mourning,” Margaery said, speaking as if she hadn’t heard Elinor. “And rightly so. But we are not, so what say you? Hawking?”

“I will still have to ask my parents,” Sansa said, “but if they permit it, Jeyne and I would love to join you.” _Mother will know whether I should be seen socialising with Margaery._

“Wonderful!” Margaery exclaimed happily. “I know we’re going to become such good friends. Have you your own birds? My brother Willas bred me a peregrine falcon who is just a marvel. Not as fine as his eagle, but much more suitable for a lady.”

“I haven’t a bird,” Sansa admitted.

“Nor I,” Jeyne said.

Margaery took this in a stride. “Oh, I can lend you both some. Willas is so generous, he’s given me so many. Lightning - my peregrine - is just my favourite.”

Sansa thanked her and smiled, finding it hard to resist Margaery’s easy charm. 

As it turned out, permission to go hawking was readily obtained. There was no chance of a meeting with the princess that day, and so her mother only asked them to take a few more guards along in the event of any trouble. Sansa was relieved; she was inclined to like Margaery, and it would have been a shame to forgo a day of hawking in such lovely weather.

Spending the day with Margaery and her ladies was almost like going back in time. It was as if there had been no war, and nothing sad or ugly had ever touched her life. Sansa felt almost as carefree as if she were back in Winterfell, safe and surrounded by smiling faces, nothing but laughter and cheerful songs to be heard. Her borrowed bird, a goshawk named Honey, caught a rabbit, and Jeyne’s bird caught one too. Lightning outshone all the other birds however, catching no less than two rabbits, a pheasant, and a vole.

Sansa would have loved to stay outside all day in the bright sun, but it was cold, and after a few hours a bitter wind started up, forcing them all back to the Red Keep well before the sun began to set.

They were all served mulled wine upon their return, and Moon Boy and Butterbumps came to entertain them. The fools were so silly, and so determined to make them all laugh, that Sansa came close to crying with laughter at one point. Moon Boy’s jokes and impressions of Alester Florent were just _too_ accurate.

Before Sansa and Jeyne had to leave to join their families for dinner, Margaery caught up to Sansa.

“You did well with Honey today,” she said.

“She’s a lovely bird.” Sansa smiled, thinking of the almost delicate way Honey had accepted her treats, of the beautiful colour of her feathers, and her sharp, amber eyes.

Margaery tilted her head to the side. “You know, I do believe Willas would want you to have her. She is almost as sweet as you are.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t -”

“Nonsense! Of course you can. I insist.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, blushing. “You’re very kind.”

Margaery waved her thanks away. “I will thank Willas for you. Or perhaps you will meet him one day, and then you may thank him yourself.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “You must join us again tomorrow. We’re going to explore the kingswood.”

Sansa had to promise that she would ask her parents for permission before Margaery would let her leave, and then she had to stay just a little longer so that Margaery could ask her what all her favourite foods were, so that she would be able to have the kitchens pack their luncheon accordingly.

“I wish every day could be like today,” Jeyne said as they made their way back to the Tower of the Hand.

“Me too,” Sansa said, thinking of her beautiful new goshawk and the promise of tomorrow with a full heart.

***

The romp in the woods was everything Sansa and Jeyne had hoped. Though the trees were mostly bare, there were piles of colourful leaves on the ground, and several animals to be spotted. They even dipped their toes into a clear blue stream they found, shrieking at the cold.

Late in the afternoon, when Sansa returned to her chambers to change for dinner, flushed and full of joy, she was surprised to find a sealed scroll of paper waiting for her. She saw the crowned stag, and for a wild moment she wondered whether the king had sent her a message. But it turned out to be from Princess Shireen, inviting her to break her fast with her the following day. 

_Why has the princess asked me to join her?_ They had not been very close when Sansa had stayed on Dragonstone, but perhaps the princess wished to renew their acquaintance? 

Recalling Margaery’s words about how reclusive Shireen had been lately, Sansa felt it was an honour to be singled out in such a way. Mother agreed when Sansa told her of the invitation, and they spent an hour before Sansa went to sleep going through every garment Sansa had brought with her and deciding what she should wear. They were certain she needed to dress carefully for the occasion, as Shireen was still in deep mourning. Sansa decided in the end that the black silks she had worn to the Great Hall would be best. No jewels. 

She woke the next morning with her insides fluttering. She donned her chosen gown, her mother oversaw a maid brush and style her hair in a simple northern fashion. Sansa thought it best as she remembered that Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen had never worn the complicated southern styles that the ladies of Cersei’s court had favoured.

Sansa’s mother kissed her brow when the maid had finished and left them alone. “Please pass my condolences on to the princess,” she said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Losing a mother is a terrible thing.”

“I will,” Sansa said solemnly, reminded suddenly that her mother had lost Grandmother Minisa when she had been quite a young girl. She hesitated, then asked, “what do you think I could say that would help?” Septa Mordane had of course taught her all the appropriate phrases, but perhaps there was something more. Something special.

Mother shook her head, looking away. “There is nothing. Just be kind.”

“I will,” Sansa said softly.

Shireen’s solar was a beautifully, but simply appointed room, bright and airy, and decorated with tapestries depicting forest animals. Benches covered with furs and pillows surrounded a table in the centre of the room, and every piece of furniture looked as if it had been carefully selected to be both beautiful and comfortable. Shireen sat at the head of the table, clad in a black samite gown that went up to her neck, one lady on her right side, two on her left.

The ladies that attended Shireen were not familiar to Sansa, but were introduced as Lady Marissa Swann, Lady Alynna Estermont, and Lady Carellen Smallwood. Lady Marissa looked to be of an age with Shireen, but the other two were closer to her own age. Like the princess, they all wore dark, modest gowns. Patchface, a fool Sansa remembered from Dragonstone, stood in a corner. He muttered to himself during the introductions, shaking his head, but said nothing Sansa could distinguish over the jangling antler hat he wore.

“Thank you for the gracious invitation, Your Grace,” Sansa said, curtseying to the princess. “It’s so very lovely to see you again.”

Shireen nodded and offered Sansa a seat at the breakfast table. It was laden with fresh-baked bread, jam, honey, cheeses, cold cuts of meat, and a wide assortment of fruit. There was no wine to be seen, but two different pots of tea. Sansa chose the black tea, and stirred honey into her cup.

For a little while there was hardly any conversation. The ladies ate the food and remarked on the weather. It was cold, and getting colder. It was not currently snowing, though Lady Carellen thought it might start to do so soon.

It was nothing at all like the easy camaraderie that existed with Margaery and her ladies. Were Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa usually this reserved? Were they wary of her? Or were they simply trying to be respectful of Shireen’s grief?

“I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. My family sends their condolences. And my mother wished me to extend her sympathies especially. She knows what it means to lose a mother at such a young age,” Sansa said on her second cup of tea, meeting Shireen’s eyes and doing her best to ignore the unsightly greyscale scars that covered one side of her face. _The Hound’s scars were worse,_ Sansa recalled, a shiver of discomfort passing through her. It had been years since she had thought of him. _Did he die in the war?_ He had been Joffrey’s sworn shield; it would have been his duty to die before Joffrey did. Her heart seemed suddenly heavier at the thought. _He was such a sad man._

“Thank you,” Shireen said in a low voice. “Maester Gormon said it looked as if she did not suffer. She died in her sleep.”

Sansa pushed her intrusive thoughts away, reached to grasp Shireen’s hand, and squeezed it lightly. _Gods, I do not know what I would do if I lost Mother._

“Death can be as sweet as sleep, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh,” Patchface suddenly said, the noise of his bells jarring in the small room.

The bread Sansa had eaten suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy in her stomach.

“Just ignore him,” Lady Marissa said, though she looked ill at ease. “He’s always saying strange things like that.”

“I think he’s funny,” Shireen said, though she wasn’t smiling. Her eyes, the same unusual dark shade of blue as the king’s, seemed far away. Sansa did not think she had ever seen a person with such melancholy, lonely eyes.

Patchface giggled. The sound made Sansa want to shudder, but she resisted the urge. “What else amuses you, Your Grace?” Sansa asked, seizing the chance to discuss something pleasant. Something other than the strange fool. “Do you still like to read?”

Shireen blinked for a moment, and flushed pink. “Yes, of course.”

“Me too,” Sansa said, smiling. “I love poems, especially.” She hoped Shireen would appreciate a distraction from her sadness, and poems never failed to transport Sansa into another world. A kinder, more romantic world, where everything was so much more beautiful.

“They’re nice,” Shireen agreed, her eyes lighting up, “but I like to read history and all sorts, too!” It was remarkable to see how she changed when her interest was engaged. She almost looked like an entirely different girl.

Eager to see more of this side of the princess, Sansa pressed on. “What are you reading now, Your Grace?”

“About the Free Cities,” Shireen said, leaning closer to Sansa and launching into an excited account of how the city of Braavos had been founded by escaped slaves, and how a group of women called moonsingers had predicted that shelter could be found where the city now stood. After a bit of encouragement, the other ladies contributed tidbits of knowledge about different places in Essos, and soon the atmosphere had lightened considerably. Shireen even laughed with them when Alynna told a joke she had heard about a Dothraki horse lord, a Shadowbinder, and a Faceless man.

Patchface said nothing else, but try as she might, Sansa could never quite forget his presence or put his ominous words entirely from her mind.


	3. Proposal

Sansa was walking along the beach when Father found her. She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by since she had wandered outside. She had been staring out at the vastness of the Narrow Sea, letting her thoughts drift like the clouds. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks was soothing, and the steady rhythm did more to settle her heart than anything else had done since her arrival on Dragonstone.

“Why are you out here alone?” he asked, taking his cloak off and wrapping her in its warmth. “I was worried.”

Sansa tugged on the fabric of the cloak, drawing it tighter around her body. She hadn’t realised how cold she’d been. “I wanted to get out of the castle,” she said, not meeting his eyes. Shame poured into her belly. “It’s so dreadful in there.”

Dragonstone was as grim as its lord, and though it had been a few weeks since Sansa had arrived, she did not think she’d ever get used to it. Arya was already thriving; treating it all like a grand adventure, and using every opportunity to explore the castle and make friends with anyone she encountered. Sansa wasn’t like her. She missed court, and she missed Winterfell even more. _Mother._ But Father had told her that they couldn’t go home yet. And now he spent all his time locked up in the Chamber of the Painted Table with King Stannis, and Sansa knew there was going to be a war. She just _knew._

“You should at least tell Septa Mordane where you’re going,” Father admonished. “She was worried.”

She stared down at the sand. _My shoes are probably ruined._ Strangely, she couldn’t muster the energy to care about her footwear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“No harm done,” Father said, stroking her cheek. “But we’re all doing our best to keep you and your sister safe. I know you’re old enough to understand that.”

Her cheeks flamed with mortification, chasing some of her numbness away. “I understand. I won’t wander off without telling Septa Mordane again.”

“Good.”

They walked quietly for a little while, heading for the endless steps that would take them up to the castle.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, unable to bear the silence.

“No.” He shot her a small smile. “In truth, I was relieved to have cause to leave the castle myself. King Stannis is… not very easy to talk to sometimes. He’s a good man, but as unyielding as iron.” A flicker of worry came to life in his gaze, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“He is not gallant like his brother Renly,” Sansa said, nodding at him in understanding.

Father smiled briefly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Few men are as - ah - gallant as Lord Renly.”

With a sharp pang in her heart, Sansa thought of how gallant Joffrey had been. _I must not think of him. He is a bastard. And Father said he would find someone else for me to marry._ Unable to contain the question that had plagued her for more than a week, Sansa looked at her father and asked, “are you really going to find me a better husband than Joffrey?”

Her father placed an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. The touch was mostly absorbed by the thick cloak, but she took what comfort she could from it. “I once promised you someone brave, gentle, and strong, didn’t I?”

“But Joffrey was a _prince_ ,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow. “Stannis has only Shireen. I suppose Prince Oberyn Martell remains unwed -”

Father sighed. “Prince Oberyn is much too…” He hesitated, his skin flushing. “...old for you. I’m afraid I cannot promise you a prince, sweetling.”

Sansa frowned. _How can he be too old? Can he not still father children?_ “Then how will you find me someone better than Joffrey?”

He stopped walking. Sansa stopped too. They faced one another, and Father picked her hands up, holding them gently. “Titles are important,” he said, meeting her eyes seriously, “I know your mother and Septa Mordane have taught you that. But they are not everything. I want a good man for you, Sansa. Someone who will cherish and love you.”

She nodded, her heart swelling in a way it had not done in weeks and weeks. “A handsome young knight? Like in the songs?”

Father’s eyes lightened to a beautiful silvery grey, but a sad smile lingered on his lips. “We’ll see, sweetling.”

Sansa closed her eyes and allowed the memory of Loras Tyrell in his splendid armour to fill her mind. If she concentrated, she could still smell the rose he had given her. Wouldn’t it be lovely if she could wed someone like him?

***

_Margaery looks so very like Loras used to look,_ Sansa thought as she walked arm-in-arm with her, smelling the faint scent of rosewater in her hair. _He was so beautiful before the war…_

“You know, you caught me just in time,” Margaery said, smiling. “I was just on my way to see my grandmother.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,” Sansa said. “I only thought you might be going to the market. Jeyne said you were looking for-”

“We’re going to the market tomorrow,” Margaery interrupted. “And you and Jeyne are both invited.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, trying to pull her arm back. “I should leave you to your plans, then.”

But Margaery gripped her tightly. “Grandmother would love for you to come along to tea with me,” she said, her cheerful smile still in place. “I’ve told her so much about you; she’s excited to make your acquaintance.”

Lady Olenna Tyrell was a woman Sansa had seen at court, but never spoken to. A tiny, white-haired little thing, harmless looking and frail. But Sansa had heard many different people refer to her as the Queen of Thorns, and had never quite dared approach her.

“If you’re certain,” Sansa said, unnerved by the sudden invitation. “I should not want to impose.”

“No imposition at all! It will just be the three of us, and I’ve told you - Grandmother is excited to meet you.” 

Indeed, Lady Olenna seemed almost to _expect_ Sansa at her table. She welcomed her warmly after Margaery introduced them, and there were plenty of lemon cakes waiting, and a whole pot of steaming, honey-sweetened tea.

“Well now, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she said after Sansa had greeted her. “Sit, sit!” She gave Margaery a look that prompted her to start pouring tea. Sansa accepted her cup with a murmured word of thanks and a smile. The tea smelled strong and floral. “My granddaughter tells me you saw the princess this morning,” Lady Olenna said, peering at her closely.

 _News travels fast._ “I did,” Sansa said, blowing on the steam rising from her cup.

“And how is the creature doing? No one has seen her.”

 _Creature?_ Sansa put her cup down. _How could she call the princess a creature?_ With one reputedly crippled grandson, and another badly scarred in the war, Sansa would have thought she’d find it in her heart to be kinder. “Princess Shireen is a lovely girl. She’s sad, of course. Grieving for her mother. But we had a delightful conversation about the books she’s lately been reading.”

Lady Olenna and Margaery exchanged glances. “You must have been friends when you stayed on Dragonstone,” Margaery said with a smile. “Is that why she wanted to see you?”

Sansa nibbled on a lemon cake. “We were never close. My sister spent more time with her than I did. I suppose she wanted to renew the acquaintance, but she didn’t really say.”

Again, Lady Olenna exchanged a glance with her granddaughter. Sansa was sure they were saying things to each other in silence. Excluding her. Her stomach clenched in on itself, and she put the lemon cake down.

“His Dour Grace was not there, was he?” Lady Olenna asked, her voice a little sharp.

Sansa, who had picked up her cup and blown on the steam again, placed it back down on the table. She stared at Olenna. “His Grace?”

“The king.” Olenna said impatiently.

 _Why would the king have been there?_ Her heart stuttered and she closed her eyes for a moment. _The king can’t be interested in the friends his daughter chooses to make. What an absurd question._ But her heart was still beating irregularly, and her stomach seemed to be staging a rebellion. _No. No. Father would have said something. Or Mother._ “I’m sure His Grace has better things to do with his time,” she said, doing her best to smile.

Olenna snorted. “True enough. He works noon and night!” A flash of irritation passed over her face. But it was gone as soon as it appeared. Olenna aimed a kindly smile at her now. “But fathers will tend to show an interest in their children’s affairs. Perhaps he thought his daughter would benefit from spending time with you?”

Sansa kept her mind blank. “I should be honoured if His Grace thought so, but I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Again, Olenna exchanged a glance with Margaery.

“I’ve had a letter from dear Willas,” Margaery said, her voice as bright as her smile. “I wrote and told him that I gave Honey to you. He was very pleased for you to have her.”

 _Really?,_ Sansa thought, frowning. Margaery had only given her the bird the day before yesterday. _But the distances are perhaps not so very great here in the south? Perhaps letters may be sent and responded to at a quicker pace._ “Honey is a beautiful bird,” Sansa said politely. “Thank you again.”

“My grandson remains unwed,” Lady Olenna said, sipping her own tea. “But I do think it is time he found himself a bride.”

Sansa’s face felt very hot, and it had nothing to do with the tea. She had barely touched it. “Oh?” she said, pretending to focus on her lemon cake. She broke a bit of it off and looked at it, her stomach roiling. The puzzle pieces were all aligning, and she did not like the picture they revealed.

“He is heir to Highgarden, you know."

“I know.” 

“Grandmother,” Margaery scolded. “I do believe you’re making my friend uncomfortable. Sansa, you aren’t eating. Would you like us to send for something different?”

Sansa seized the opportunity. “I think - I’m not hungry. My stomach…” She trailed off, looking down at the table in embarrassment.

“Oh, how terrible! Shall I have Maester Gormon attend you?” Margaery’s voice sounded truly concerned.

Sansa looked up with a tight smile. “I don’t think it’s anything so serious,” she said, her face still burning. “I think - I think I should just go to my chambers and lie down.”

“Very well, child,” Lady Olenna said.

Her heart could not settle, and her stomach felt tight and full of something thick and heavy. Even after half an hour in bed, Sansa could not rid herself of the uncomfortable sensations.

After an hour, Mother came to find her. “The maids told me you were unwell,” she said, sitting on the edge of her bed and placing a cool palm against her forehead. “You’re not feverish.”

“I’m not ill,” Sansa said, forcing herself to sit up.

Mother pulled her hand back. “Then what is it? Did something happen? I thought you said everything went well this morning with the princess?”

Sansa bit her lip. “I spoke with Lady Olenna Tyrell.”

“I see.” Mother sighed. “What did she say?”

 _It was what she didn’t say._ Olenna’s question about the princess and the king had settled inside her like lead. “I think she wishes to find a bride for her grandson, Willas.”

There was a look of relief, followed by a flicker of annoyance. “Is that so?” Mother pursed her lips.

Sansa hesitated. “I won’t be betrothed to anyone so old, will I?” she asked, the lead in her stomach expanding and filling her lungs. _If Father considers Prince Oberyn too old, surely that excludes… others of a similar age?_ But maybe Father had changed his mind? Maybe things were different now that she was older?

“Willas is hardly old,” Mother said, not meeting Sansa’s eyes. “Much older men have been known to father sons.” Sansa thought of Lord Frey and shuddered. “He is crippled, however,” her mother added, now watching her closely.

“Less crippled than Bran,” Sansa said, frowning. “From what I hear, he merely walks with a cane.”

“That would not bother you?” Mother asked, still searching her face intently.

Sansa’s stomach flipped over and her heart sped up. Was she worrying about nothing? Was Willas actually a potential match, and not… someone else?

“I - I don’t know. But Lady Margaery speaks very highly of him.”

Mother hummed. She looked ready to say something, but stopped herself, her expression torn. Finally, she simply gave Sansa a tight smile and said, “your father and I will find you a worthy husband when the time comes.”

 _You will, or you already have?_ Sansa could not bring herself to ask. She was too afraid of what the answer would be. “That time is coming soon, isn’t it?” she asked instead, meeting her mother’s eyes.

Every part of her mother went very still; even her eyes seemed to become mirror-flat. “Perhaps,” she said. She tucked a loose lock of hair behind Sansa’s ear. “Try to rest, sweetling.”

***

It was so early when the maid shook her awake that Sansa thought it was the middle of the night at first.

“The king has summoned you and your father to his solar,” Mother’s voice said somewhere to the left, and Sansa’s bleary eyes immediately shot open.

_What?_

“Wear the blue gown,” Sansa’s mother went on, “with the white lace.” There was something feverish about her face that made the bottom of Sansa’s stomach disappear. _No._

“Do you know why he’s asked to see me?” she asked, mechanically stripping off her nightgown with her maid’s help. She couldn’t breathe properly. Every breath was too shallow, too short.

“I can’t be certain. He just asked to see you and Ned.” Her mother met her eyes for a moment, and Sansa _knew._

After being rushed into her prettiest gown, her mother shooed the maid away and brushed Sansa’s hair herself with gentle hands. Once her hair was shining, she began to plait it.

Unable to bear the silence, Sansa met her mother’s eyes in the mirror of her vanity, drew in a deep breath, and said, “please. You must have some idea?”

“I suspect the king will ask for your hand,” Mother said, speaking in a very low voice. “I have been hoping for this, I won’t deny it. You were born to be queen.” She finished with her hair, and placed her hands lightly on Sansa’s shoulders. “Surely you anticipated the possibility?”

Sansa’s heart had stopped. She wanted to say no. She wanted to say she’d had no idea, and demand to know why she hadn’t been told. _Warned._ But she couldn’t. “I suppose I have,” she whispered. _I just didn’t want to._ In a stronger voice she asked, “why have you not discouraged me from spending time with the Tyrells? They clearly want me for Willas. Shouldn’t we avoid giving them false hope? And Margaery… they want her to marry the king. If we are to be rivals -”

“House Tyrell is powerful,” Mother said, cutting her off and not meeting Sansa’s eyes anymore. “And Willas would not be a bad match for you, but we must know what the king plans to do before any decisions can be made.”

“And you expect the king to reveal his plans now? To Father and me?”

“I hope so. Though I don’t know why he asked to see you both. That man is so -” Mother cut herself off and exhaled loudly. She closed her eyes. When she opened them back up she gave Sansa a thin smile. “I hope so.” 

Sansa nodded despite her misgivings. _Mother could be wrong. This could all be a misunderstanding._ There was a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

Her mother embraced her quickly in response, kissing her brow. “I know you will make us proud.”

Sansa left her chamber with less air in her lungs than she would have liked. Had her maid laced the gown up more tightly than usual? Or had she simply lost the ability to breathe normally? 

Father was waiting for her just outside, a grim expression on his face. “Come, we mustn’t leave the king waiting. He is not a patient man.”

Sansa kept quiet as they walked, uncomfortably aware of the pair of Stark household guards following at a respectful distance.

Her father looked at her a few times with his brows knitted together, but said nothing.

As Sansa never wanted to reach their destination, it was inevitable that they should arrive at the king’s solar in the merest blink of an eye. Ser Barristan Selmy guarded the door. He nodded at Father and let them pass. 

The sun was not quite up, so the solar was lit by candles, lamps, and a blazing fire in the enormous hearth. The furniture was surprisingly plain. It did not seem like an _uncomfortable_ room, but every object within seemed to be there for a functional purpose. There weren’t decorative pieces of art on the walls, and the rugs on the floor were painfully drab.

King Stannis, standing behind his functional, simple desk, was just as plain as the room he occupied. He wore his customary leather jerkin and breeches of roughspun wool, and no crown. He nodded at her father, and then at her when she curtseyed.

“Your Grace,” Father said. “You summoned us?”

“Sit,” Stannis said, waving a hand at a pair of chairs in front of the desk. They all sat. Without preamble or any of the usual courtesies, Stannis began to speak. “You have asked me to send an army to the Wall, Lord Stark,” he said, his voice sharp, “and I am inclined to do as you ask.”

Her father’s shoulders seemed to relax. “Thank you -”

“I hadn’t finished.”

“Apologies,” her father muttered, tensing again.

“I am not convinced that my wife died of natural causes,” Stannis said, his eyes coming to a rest on her for a moment. She held her breath, hardly able to believe her ears. “The Tyrells have been trying to foist Renly’s betrothed off on me ever since I took the throne. Now that Selyse is as dead as my brothers they have redoubled their efforts.”

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine. _Is he speaking of murder?_

“Do you mean to say that you believe the Tyrells are to blame for your wife’s death?” Father said, speaking slowly and carefully.

“I have no proof,” Stannis said, scowling. “But it all seems very… convenient. You must have considered it?” Before Father could say anything to that, Stannis abruptly stood up from his seat and marched over to the hearth. He stared into the flames. “If things are as dire at the Wall as you say Lord Commander Mormont reports, I cannot afford to lose the Tyrells as my allies. And with the Lannister gold mines drying up, the Crown can’t afford to lose its access to the Tyrell coffers, either. But I would not marry them.” His scowl deepened. “Yet I must marry as I have no sons and no brothers. And Mace has made it clear that he will take it as a slight if I snub Lady Margaery for a woman of less consequence.”

The fine hairs all over Sansa’s body rose on end.

“Your Grace,” Father said, shifting in his chair and glancing at her. “I don’t see why my daughter was summoned for this. She does not need to hear -”

Stannis silenced her father with a look. “When I wrote to you, telling you of my wife’s death and asking for your presence in King’s Landing I asked you to bring your two eldest children. Lord Stark. You are no fool. I’m sure you understand what I meant by it.”

Father remained silent for an excruciatingly long moment. “You would have my Robb take Lady Margaery off your hands,” he finally said. “And…”

Sansa touched her father’s hand, willing him to look at her. He did not.

“... you would take Sansa for yourself,” he finished, his jaw tensing.

Her mouth went dry and her hands went limp and slid to her lap. She tried to make her mind go blank, but her father’s words kept echoing. 

The faint hope that it was all a misunderstanding was gone.

“Yes.” The word seemed to reverberate oddly in Sansa’s mind. “The Tyrells shall have nothing to complain about. Margaery will be Lady of Winterfell, a position of high honour. And I will not have chosen an unworthy bride. The Stark bloodline is eight thousand years old. The blood of kings flows in your veins. The blood of the First Men. And in these times of trouble at the Wall it will seem only right that our Houses should forge a military alliance.”

Sansa felt as if she were falling. Was she falling? _No. I am sitting quite still. Be calm. Be calm._

Her father finally looked at her. Stannis was staring at her too, one hand braced against the wall next to the hearth.

 _Calm,_ she repeated in her mind, hoping that her expression was not betraying her inner turmoil. _I must remember my courtesies._ She could not smile reassuringly at her father, however.

Something in her father’s face shifted, his soft concern hardening. 

_He is Lord Stark, now. Not Father._

“Your Grace,” he said, a fair amount of ice in his tone, “do you mean to imply that the Crown would deny me the military aid I requested should I refuse you? Have you forgotten your duty as Protector of the Realm?”

Stannis jerked his head around to glare at her father. “Do you mean to refuse me?”

“I have yet to decide.” Her father glanced at her, but she averted her gaze, her heart pounding. _Would Father really consider refusing the king?_ “I have had other offers. From younger men. Sansa is not yet sixteen.” For a moment her heart stuttered, and she had to work very hard to keep her composure. Aside from a quick look at her father’s stony expression, she managed to stay still. _Is there more than one other offer?_

“Yes,” Stannis said, scowling. “From what Varys tells me, Mace and his witch of a mother have practically placed Highgarden’s heir on a platter in front of your daughter.” He looked at her now, his gaze pinning her in place. She held her breath. “That is why I asked you both here. I must know; have you made them any promises? Either of you?”

Her father shook his head. He looked at her. “Sansa?”

She swallowed. “It is not my place to make any such promises, Your Grace,” she said, her voice weak.

The king nodded once, his shoulders relaxing by the barest margin.

“I fail to see how Lady Margaery and my daughter are your only two options,” her father suddenly said sharply. “Surely the Florents are eager for you to marry them again? And Arianne Martell remains unwed.”

“I have considered the options,” Stannis snapped. “There are not as many as you may think.”

“Well, I have not yet considered all of Sansa’s options. And if you are right in assuming that the Tyrells had a hand in your queen’s death, wouldn’t a betrothal to you put my daughter in danger’s path? And what of Robb? Would he be safe, wed to Lady Margaery? You would have me put a viper in my heir’s bed?”

“I would give your daughter a crown,” Stannis bit out, his face as sour as if he had just sucked on a lemon. “And she would be protected. Just as I’m sure you would be capable of protecting your son from the thorns of a single rose,” Derision dripped from his voice. “The last I knew, flowers don’t flourish in the deep of winter.”

Father glared. “Was Queen Selyse protected?”

“My queen’s lack of protection was a mistake I will not repeat. For your daughter I would employ tasters. I would have the Tyrells sent away from court. And they may be vipers, but they are not _stupid_. It would raise too much suspicion to kill both your son and your daughter. And my hope is that with Margaery wed, they would have no reason to harm anyone. She could hardly be placed in my bed if she is already warming another.”

“You hope?” Father was still glaring. “You expect me to gamble with the lives of my children based on a hope?”

“I should think it a risk worth taking,” Stannis said angrily. “You would have all the aid you requested. And must I repeat that your daughter would be queen?”

Father blew out a breath. He was still looking at the king, and it seemed to Sansa that their eyes were locked in a silent battle. She dared not move or make a sound. Eventually her father broke eye contact with Stannis and looked down at his hands. He sighed again. “You need not repeat it,” he said, his tone a little less hard. “You honour her with your proposal, my king.”

Stannis still looked sour. “But?”

“I ask only a week or two to consider the matter. And to ask my wife for her opinion; Robb and Sansa are her children, too.”

Stannis stared at her father for several long seconds. Sansa did not dare breathe. He shifted his piercing gaze to her. “And what of your opinion, Lady Sansa? Do you wish to consider the matter?”

Sansa’s heart rattled to a complete stop, her mouth drying out. She had to close her eyes for a moment. _Calm yourself._

“Sansa?” her father said gently.

She drew in a long silent breath and clasped her hands together in her lap. She knew what was expected of her; Septa Mordane had trained her well. “I - I have grown to admire His Grace greatly, and would be honoured to be his wife if that is what my lord father and lady mother think wise.”

Stannis snorted and rolled his eyes briefly toward the ceiling.

Blood rushed to her cheeks and she looked down at her clasped hands. _This is how he responds?_ It wasn’t fair. Joffrey, a bastard born of incest, had been more courteous to her.

_Except when he wasn’t._

“I will talk to my wife,” her father said, his words oddly stilted. Sansa thought about glancing at his face, but couldn’t bring herself to. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on taking deep, even breaths as visceral memories of her betrothal to Joffrey - of her heartbreak - seemed to grip and rip at her insides until she was raw with it.

With the greatest of efforts, she made herself think of Stannis instead. _It would be an honour. I would be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My firstborn son would be the heir to the throne. An honour._ But her heart was pounding. _Would the Tyrells really try to harm me? Did they really kill Queen Selyse? The princess said she died in her sleep… how can she have been murdered?_ She wished she was alone. She wanted to cry.

“Good,” Stannis said. “Now I should like a moment alone with Lady Sansa, if you would permit it.”

Sansa was sitting close enough to her father to notice him twitch at those words, even through her own silent distress. “I do not think it would be appropriate.”

“I will be brief,” Stannis promised.

Her father stared at the king, who met his gaze solemnly, and for a moment there was a still, tense silence. Eventually her father frowned, rose from his seat, and nodded once at Stannis. He turned to her, his expression serious. “I will be right outside.” Sansa managed a tiny nod. He sent Stannis one last frown, and left.

She threaded her fingers tightly together and waited. The king remained by the fire.

“You were kind to my daughter when she invited you to breakfast,” Stannis said at length. He searched her face.

“The princess is a lovely girl,” Sansa said, her heart calming a little at the thought of the princess. Stannis continued to stare at her. She tried to meet his gaze evenly, but eventually she couldn’t do it anymore. She looked down at her hands, blushing.

“Tell me true,” Stannis said, something aggressive and prickly in his voice. “What do you think of my proposal? No pretty lies this time. I have no use for empty-headed women, and certainly not an empty-headed wife. You heard your father. You might very well be in danger if we were to wed.”

“I - “ she looked up, completely at a loss. Nothing she was feeling at the moment was fit to be described aloud, and he did not want her courtesies. It was as if he’d stripped her bare.

“Out with it.”

_The last time I was betrothed to a member of the royal family, I lost Lady and then Father had to smuggle me and Arya from King’s Landing as if we were criminals. The last time I was betrothed it turned out my husband-to-be was a bastard born of incest. The last time I was betrothed my heart was broken to pieces. Am I now to be betrothed to an old king who does not even seem to truly want me? My life in danger because of it?_

“I’m frightened,” she blurted. She blanched as soon as the words were out.

“Of being murdered? Or of me?” There was no trace of humour in his voice or on his face. It was not a face built for smiles.

Sansa considered the question. She was certainly afraid of being killed, of course she was. But the thought of kind old Lady Olenna, or sweet-natured Margaery doing her any harm seemed ridiculous. All of the Tyrells appeared so harmless. Even Mace, big and loud as he could be, seemed more likely to choose a nice long luncheon over anything so strenuous as murder.

Couldn’t it be that they were simply exploiting an opportunity? Couldn’t the queen simply have died of some mysterious illness? Such things happened.

Was she afraid of Stannis? He was an intimidating man, but he was not terrifying like Ser Ilyn Payne had been. And Father was always saying that Stannis was a just man and a good king. _But a good husband?_ He was so much older than her, and he only seemed to want her because of who she _wasn’t._

Her stomach tied itself into a tight knot. “Both,” she admitted. _And neither._

“Know this,” Stannis said, approaching her and offering her a hand. She accepted his help and got up from her seat. They faced each other, and though Sansa was often told that she was tall for a woman, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes. Shireen’s eyes were so like his; the same unusual dark shade of blue. But the princesses’ gaze did not make her think of deep, dark, icy pools of water. She shivered. “Your father is no friend of mine, and yet I know I would not be standing here without his support against the Lannisters. He is a man of honour.” He ground his teeth for a moment, his hand tightening around hers. “And I owe him a debt.”

“Is that why you would marry me rather than choose a lady of another House?” she asked, her heart beating in her throat. “Because you owe my father a debt?” That was no better than being wanted because she wasn’t a Tyrell. Did he mean to repay his debt to her father by making her queen? Or did he intend to repay the debt by sending aid to the Wall? Or was the debt of such a nature that it could never be repaid?

Stannis considered her in silence, and Sansa had the oddest notion that he was looking at her - truly looking at her - for the first time. There was a spark of light - _life_ \- in his dark eyes, and her breath caught in her throat. His iron grip on her hand loosened. “One of many reasons, perhaps.” 

She blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. _Many reasons?_

He released her and took a step back. “Whether we marry or not, I would not see you or any member of your family harmed. By my hand or any other. You needn’t be afraid.”

She nodded, oddly reassured by the steel in his voice. Of course he would not stand idly by and allow the Tyrells, or anyone else, to threaten his allies. And she did not think he would harm a lady. Queen Selyse had never seemed to be ill treated for all that she had been a sour woman, and Sansa had never seen Stannis speak to Selyse, or any lady, the way King Robert had sometimes spoken to Queen Cersei. Abrupt and bordering on outright rude, yes. But not _cruel._ Still, the knot of fear and anxiety in her stomach did not loosen. A lack of cruelty was certainly something Sansa desired in a husband, but she had dared to hope for more than that. 

_’Someone who will cherish and love you.’_

Pushing her confused jumble of thoughts aside, she met the king’s eyes once more. “Thank you, Your Grace. You’re very kind.”

He clenched his jaw. His eyes flicked down to her gown. With his jaw still clenched tightly shut, his eyes returned to her face. “You will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand? Until your father has made his decision, there is nothing to be said.”

“I understand.”

“And you will not accept any other proposals should you be asked directly,” Stannis added, a shadow crossing his face.

“No, Your Grace. Of course not.” It was not the way these things were done.

He nodded grimly and gestured at the door. “My lady.” 

She understood the dismissal, hurriedly curtseyed, and left. Her father was waiting right outside as he had promised, and for a moment she closed her eyes and wished she could throw herself into his arms. What a comfort it would be, to have him embrace her as he used to do when she was younger, and envelop her with the scents of home… 

But Ser Barristan and the other guards were watching. Besides, she did not want Father to know how upset she was. She was not a child.

“Are you well?” her father asked as they began to walk towards the Tower of the Hand, his brows furrowed.

She nodded.

“Is there anything I should know?”

“It was nothing,” she said, breathing deeply and fixing a smile to her face. “He just wanted to ask again what I thought of all this.”

“And what do you think?” He glanced at their guards, and they immediately fell further back to give them a bit more privacy.

She hesitated, looking at her father’s concerned face. If she told him of her fears, might it influence his decision? How would the king truly react to being denied? He had promised that her family would not be harmed, and she did not want to believe that he would refuse her father the aid he had requested, but how could she be certain? The king was a stranger to her. Father believed he was just, and Stannis did not _seem_ like a liar… But all she really knew was that it had been his brother, King Robert, who had sentenced Lady to die even though she had done nothing wrong. 

“It’s an honour,” she said softly.

Her father’s long face took on an expression she could not read, his familiar grey eyes misting over. He leaned in to kiss her forehead. Sansa barely had a chance to register it before he stepped back. “Come along. I’d best go and talk to your mother.”

Sansa straightened her back. “Yes, Father.”

***

“What will happen?” Sansa asked, resisting the urge to chew on her bottom lip as her mother brushed her hair at the end of what felt like a very long day. The maid had been sent away and the two Stark women were quite alone in Sansa’s chambers. “What did Father say? Will I marry the king? Is it true about the other offers for me? Do you really think the queen was murdered?”

It still seemed impossible to Sansa.

“Sansa, please,” her mother admonished gently, “one question at a time.” There was a deep line between her eyebrows, and her eyes were tired. She sighed. “It has only been a day. Nothing has been decided.”

“But -”

“Your Father has decided to think about the king’s proposal for a little while.”

Sansa was silent for a few beats. “Are you going to tell Robb?”

“I believe your father is speaking to him now.”

Would Robb want to marry Lady Margaery? _She’s very beautiful and lively. They’d be a good match._ “Mother, who else has asked for my hand? Has there been a formal request from House Tyrell?”

Her mother’s lips thinned. “Your father does not wish me to discuss it with you.”

“Why not?” Sansa wanted to turn fully around to face Mother, but she was still brushing her hair - albeit in a distracted sort of way - and Sansa did not want her to stop. She watched her in the mirror instead.

“Sansa,” her mother sighed. “He will not agree to a marriage that is not in your best interest. Trust him. Trust us.”

“What do you think is in my best interest?”

Her mother put the brush down and walked over to the window. She crossed her arms and stared out into the darkness. “I think the king’s proposal is a reasonable one, and I have urged your father to consider it seriously despite the risks. But he wishes to consider all the options.”

“What other options are there?” Sansa pressed on, frustration edging into her voice.

“There are new, rich lords in the westerlands to consider, and you know House Tyrell holds much of the power in the south these days. Their armies are well-fed and fresh,” her mother said with a furrowed brow. “We will need their help, whether they murdered Queen Selyse or not. If they are serious about making you the next Lady of Highgarden, we cannot afford to dismiss them out of hand.”

“But if Robb marries Lady Margaery -”

“I know.” Mother sighed. There was a moment of silence. “What would be your wish, sweetling?” she then asked softly.

Her stomach tightened. “I don’t know.” She looked at her mother’s profile, gently lit by the fire in the hearth and the candles that littered her chambers. There were fine lines around her eyes, but her hair was still long and lustrous, lending her a youthful appearance. She stood with her back straight and her shoulders squared, and her expression was stoic. The overall effect was beautiful and dignified, and Sansa’s heart swelled at the sight. “But I want you to be proud of me,” she heard herself say. _I want to be like you._

“Oh, child,” her mother turned to face her, opening her arms in invitation. Sansa went to her without a second thought, accepting the offered embrace. It was safe, warm, and everything that was home. “I will always be proud of you. Always.”


	4. Brothers

“Look at his face,” Jeyne whispered, concealing a smirk with one hand.

Discreetly, Sansa glanced at the king. Lady Margaery was standing next to him, smiling brightly and toying with a ringlet of hair. The king’s expression was especially sour: a pained grimace fixed firmly in place. His body was leaning subtly away from hers.

Sansa wondered whether anyone had ever reacted to Margaery in such a way before. Certainly none of the other courtiers behaved that way when in her presence. Not even the Florents - grumpy as they could be with the other members of House Tyrell - seemed able to treat Margaery with anything less than courtesy. No one but the king could withstand Margaery’s charm, and no one but the king cared to even try. Robb was already half in love, and he was not allowed to speak to her without a chaperone present; Mother and Father did not want him to accidentally mention the possibility of a betrothal.

Everyone at court loved Margaery. Everyone except the king.

They were currently at a private dinner hosted by Lord and Lady Tyrell, and it could not be more obvious that Stannis was trying to leave early. If he did not need House Tyrell’s continued support, Sansa was certain he would have ignored the invitation entirely.

“He’s turning red,” Jeyne went on, giggling behind her hand.

“You shouldn’t stare,” Sansa said, looking down at her food. She’d barely touched any of it. Most people had finished, and several guests had risen to speak to each other in small groups here and there around the generously proportioned dining room. The servants kept refilling everyone’s cups.

“Lord and Lady Tyrell just joined them,” Jeyne said, grinning into her cup of wine. “Do you think the king will go fully purple, like last time?”

Sansa didn’t answer. Her stomach seemed to have shrunk down to nothing at all. The king had to be aware that Margaery was only attempting to get to know him. If they were to be betrothed, as Margaery believed, it was natural for them to speak to one another at dinners and other social engagements. If Father were to make up his mind, Sansa would be doing the same thing. But as things stood, she was not meant to act as if anything had changed.

_He’s behaving as if she’s some piece of filth clinging to his favourite pair of riding boots._

She reached for her cup and drank deeply.

“Oh, but who is that?” Jeyne said, still looking over at the king and the Tyrells he was conversing with.

Sansa glanced up, curious despite herself. A handsome man had appeared next to the king, and Lord Tyrell was clearly introducing them. Margaery was standing partially in the way, but Sansa could still see he was wearing fine clothing: his doublet embroidered with roses, and his green velvet cape fastened with intricate, golden clasps. When Margaery moved a little to the side, Sansa’s heart gave a jolt. The man was using a cane, and favoured his right leg heavily.

“He’s very good looking,” Jeyne said in a low tone of voice.

“It’s Willas Tyrell,” Sansa said back, keeping her voice low too.

Jeyne’s eyes widened, and she was clearly suppressing the urge to let out an excited noise. She grabbed Sansa’s arm and squeezed it. “Willas? Your Willas?” she hissed in her ear.

“He is not mine,” Sansa hissed back. But it was no use. Sansa had not been spending as much time with the Tyrell ladies over the past few days as she had before the king’s proposal, but they had still been unavoidably in each other’s company. Margaery was always hinting at certain things, so naturally Jeyne had decided that a betrothal would be happening at any moment. She didn’t know about the king’s proposal. It had been agony to keep it from her, but Sansa could not trust that the secret would be kept if anyone outside her immediate family were to find out.

“He must be here to ask for your hand,” Jeyne said in a breathless voice, placing a hand over her heart.

“Don’t be silly.” Sansa’s face was warming, and she couldn’t look at anything but her plate. Was Willas in the Red Keep in order to ask for her hand? It was clearly what the Tyrells wanted. But was it what Father wanted? Had he been stalling for time so that Willas would be able to come and offer for her in person? Or was it possible that there was some other offer on the table that was even more tempting?

She and Jeyne watched surreptitiously as the king managed to extract himself from the little group of Tyrells, stalking from the room with a thunderous expression on his face, a vein on the side of his neck throbbing. Not one minute went by before Margaery was calling Sansa’s name.

“Sansa! You must come meet dear Willas. He just arrived!”

Feeling as if every eye in the room was upon her, Sansa rose with as much dignity as she could muster and walked over to the Tyrells. She was especially aware of Lady Olenna observing her from her seat. Robb cast her an amused look from the other side of the room, where he was talking to Garlan Tyrell and his wife, Leonette. Mother and Father looked concerned, but Mother nodded when Sansa met her eyes, which sent a rush of confidence through her. She straightened her back and walked with her head held high.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Tyrell blustered when she reached them, “allow me to introduce my heir, Willas Tyrell.”

Sansa curtseyed. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lord. I do believe I owe you a debt of gratitude. Honey is the most splendid bird I have ever owned.”

“Likewise, my lady. And I’m sure Honey could not have asked for a more beautiful owner,” Willas said in a soft voice, his kind brown eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “My sister’s letters did not do you justice.” He kissed her hand just as a knight would in a song, and her cheeks bloomed with heat.

“Oh, you! I went on and on about how lovely she is, it isn’t my fault that there simply aren’t any words good enough to describe her,” Margaery said with feigned exasperation, and gave Sansa a playful wink.

Still blushing, Sansa tried to gather her scattered wits. “You tease me,” she said, looking down at her clasped hands and then up at Willas through lowered lashes. “There are none here at court who match your sister, my lord. She is all that is beautiful and charming.”

Margaery beamed at her and Willas in turn. Lord Mace looked on with a fond expression, sipping his wine placidly. Lady Alerie Tyrell was more difficult to read, but she reminded Sansa irresistibly of her own mother. They had the same air of quiet dignity about them.

“Ah, but I think you may supersede my sweet sister when it comes to modesty, my lady,” Willas said, his eyes glittering with mirth as Margaery’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage.

“This is why we leave him in Highgarden,” Margaery said, aiming a haughty glare at her brother. “He is a menace.”

Sansa covered a smile with a hand. She was sure it was not true; she had heard Mace brag that he needn’t shorten his stay in King’s Landing because his son had things so well in hand. _But who rules Highgarden now they are both here? Loras?_

“Now now,” Mace said, though his fond expression was still in place.

Margaery’s glare vanished, and she was smiling once more. “Come, Willas hasn’t eaten. We three should sit down together and he can tell us of his adventures on the road.”

Sansa looked over at her place next to Jeyne, near her parents, and furrowed her brow. “Should I not return to my own seat?”

“Nonsense,” Margaery said, waving her words away. “A servant will fetch your plate and cup. Come, come.”

They left Lord and Lady Tyrell, walking a little more slowly than they normally might to accommodate Willas and his cane, and approached the part of the table where Lady Olenna was sitting. She smiled at Sansa, but stood up before they had a chance to sit down. She accepted a kiss from Willas and called him a dear boy, but quickly thereafter she looked at Margaery and declared she was taking her leave. “I’m tired,” she said. “Willas can take the king’s seat. I doubt he’s coming back. Lady Sansa, you may sit next to him.”

“Oh, but Lady Olenna, that’s Margaery’s seat, I couldn’t -”

“Nonsense. Margaery will take my seat. Won’t you, Margaery?”

“Of course, Grandmother,” Margaery said sweetly.

And thus, Sansa found herself sitting between Willas and Margaery as the servants brought out fresh, hot food for Willas. He ate sparingly, Sansa noticed, but sampled most of the different dishes available.

“Tell us everything,” Margaery commanded after a little while. “How is everything at home?”

“Everything is well,” Willas said. “Loras will keep the castle from falling down while I’m away, but I do not think I should stay here overlong.”

“He is so dutiful,” Margaery said to Sansa, glowing with pride. “What news from the road?”

“There is nothing to tell,” Willas said in his soft voice, a patient smile lingering on his lips. “It was a quick, quiet journey.”

An image of Jon floated to the fore of Sansa’s mind, a similar smile on his face. “Did you ride?” she found herself asking, doing her best to judge the appropriate amount of polite interest to show. _I must not appear too eager, but not too disinterested, either._

“Yes, I rode in on a magnificent palfrey named Goldmane,” Willas said, his eyes lighting up. “She will make me a fortune if her foals breed true. Her gait is so light it feels as if one is riding on air.”

“Don’t get him started,” Margaery warned, “he’ll talk your ear off for hours if you let him.” But Margaery’s voice was affectionate, and she exchanged teasing glances with Willas that put Sansa at ease.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a rider,” Sansa admitted, wishing for the first time that she had Arya’s affinity for horses. She might have more to say to Willas if she did.

“You simply have not found the right horse,” Willas said, his eyes lighting up even more. “I wager I could find you a sweet mare that would suit you beautifully. Why, I can think of three different ones that I have in the stables at Highgarden right now that would -”

“What a wonderful idea!” Margaery interrupted, clapping her hands excitedly. Willas blinked at her outburst, furrowing his brow. “Of course you must visit Highgarden, Sansa! But I wish this winter would end so you could see how lovely the Reach is in the spring,” she continued, her expression turning dreamy. “Roses bloom in every colour there is, and the fragrance in the air cannot be described...”

“That sounds lovely,” Sansa said, closing her eyes briefly to imagine it.

“I’m sure you would be most welcome,” Willas said, clearing his throat and glancing between her and Margaery, his brow still a little furrowed. Margaery was nodding at him with a wide, encouraging smile.

“I’ll go ask Father,” Margaery said, standing up and walking away.

Willas cast Sansa an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Margaery has these ideas sometimes. It’s best not to object.”

Sansa was about to answer when she was distracted by the weight of Grey Wind’s head pressing down on her shoulder.

Willas did not retreat or make a sound, but his eyes did widen, and he became very still.

“I’m Robb Stark,” her brother’s voice said from somewhere behind her. “And this is Grey Wind.”

Sansa, petting Grey Wind absently, watched as Willas stood with the aid of his cane to greet Robb. “Well met, Robb Stark. I’m Willas Tyrell. Is that - is that a direwolf?”

“It is,” Robb said proudly.

“May I?” Willas asked, gesturing at Grey Wind.

Robb laughed. “You want to pet him?”

Willas looked slightly abashed. “If I may. I have never seen such a beautiful animal.” He turned to gaze at Grey Wind with a rapt expression.

“You’ll give him a big head,” Robb said, but he looked pleased. “Don’t touch his snout. He won’t tolerate that from strangers.”

Slowly, Willas reached for Grey Wind’s flank, stroking his fur reverently. “I’ve read theories that direwolves could be able to breed with wolves,” he said, his eyes following his own hand as he continued to stroke Grey Wind. “Have you tried it?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Robb said, his tone amused. “Though only the gods know what Grey Wind gets up to when he goes off to hunt.”

“He hunts on his own?” Willas said, looking at Robb now. “Really? And he returns to you?”

“Naturally,” Robb said with a cocky smile. But then the smile faded and he looked more serious. “He is mine, and I am his. We were meant for each other.”

 _Just as Lady and I were meant for each other._ Sansa closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of grief. Grey Wind was still resting his snout on Sansa’s shoulder, letting her pet his face. He gave a high-pitched whine and licked her cheek. She kissed him back gratefully, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“You are so brave,” Margaery’s voice said. Sansa opened her eyes and saw that Margaery had returned, and was now standing with Willas and Robb. “I should be terrified to have a direwolf so close!”

Regretting the loss of Grey Wind’s touch, Sansa got up to stand with them. “It is not bravery if one is not afraid,” she said, thinking of some of her father’s favourite phrases. Robb met her eyes and they exchanged knowing smiles.

“You can pet him if you like, Lady Margaery.” Robb’s gaze drifted to the expanse of skin exposed by Margaery’s revealing silks. “He won’t bite…” he paused, his eyes flashing with amusement. “... Unless he thinks you mean me harm, of course.”

Margaery, who had been reaching tentatively for Grey Wind’s flank, retracted her hand. “Be serious!” she exclaimed, looking between Robb and Willas. “It’s safe, is it not?”

Robb nodded, chuckling to himself. “It’s fine, my lady. I promise.”

Glancing frequently at Robb, Margaery reached for Grey Wind again, moving her hand very slowly and carefully. Grey Wind observed all this with quiet perseverance.

“Oh! He’s so soft,” Margaery said, beaming at Robb. “How wonderful!” She looked at Willas. “Why did you not say he was so soft?”

Willas shrugged, smiling mildly.

Robb was invited to pull up a chair, and they all sat down together. Grey Wind curled up on the floor behind Robb and Sansa.

“Father says you’d be an honoured guest, Lady Sansa,” Margaery said without preamble once they had all settled. “And Mother thinks it a splendid idea, too.”

“What are you speaking of, my lady?” Robb’s expression was puzzled.

“Willas had the most wonderful idea!” Margaery said happily. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

“Lady Margaery asked her lord father whether I’d be welcome to visit Highgarden,” Sansa explained, sending Robb a tight smile. He blinked at her for a moment, but understanding dawned quickly in his eyes.

“Well, you can’t leave King’s Landing,” Robb said smoothly. “Not at present. But I’m sure Father could be persuaded if you worked at it for a few years.”

“ _Years_? That won’t do at all!” Margaery exclaimed.

“You did say you wanted Sansa to visit in the spring,” Willas pointed out, his eyes amused. “Perhaps by the time it is spring, Lord Stark will have been convinced?”

“You are both terrible,” Margaery said, glaring at Robb and Willas in exaggerated outrage. “What shall we do to punish them?” she asked Sansa, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Perhaps being terrible is punishment enough?” Sansa said, repressing a smile and making herself sound as pious as a septa. “Just think, we may leave them behind whenever we choose, but they are always stuck with their terrible selves, no matter where they go.”

“Too true,” Margaery said with a laugh. “Should we leave them, do you think? Deprive them of our charming company?”

“I wonder if that was what King Stannis thought he was doing, earlier?” Robb said, stroking his chin and wrinkling his forehead into a silly sort of thoughtful expression. “Causing us all to become despondent at the lack of his delightful company?”

Margaery’s amusement went out like a light, and her smile froze. “Whatever do you mean?”

Robb chuckled. “Nothing. It’s just that I sometimes find it hard to believe King Robert and King Stannis were brothers.” He shook his head. “But perhaps you see something in King Stannis I have failed to spot, my lady? You seemed pleased enough to hang off his every word earlier.”

A faint pink tinge appeared on Margaery’s face. “He is our king,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes for a moment, and smiled when she opened them, confidence apparently restored. “And I think he is very striking.”

 _Why is he doing this?_ Sansa’s heart was pounding. She did not see any reason to discuss the king with the Tyrells at this point in time. She was trying to silently signal for Robb to desist, but he did not seem to have eyes for anything but Margaery. _And her bosom._ Willas, on the other hand, was observing Sansa closely. She stopped trying to communicate with Robb and made her face as blank as she could.

“Striking, is he?” Robb still sounded amused, but there was something of a challenge in his tone, too.

“Yes,” Margaery lifted her chin, “you cannot deny that our king is an impressive man. Very...” she gestured vaguely with a hand. “... tall.”

“And a brilliant commander,” Robb said, nodding. “If Father is to be believed, his tactics were vital in the war against the Lannisters.”

Margaery’s eyes brightened. “Indeed! He’s really quite clever.”

Robb shot Sansa a quick, impish look before focusing his attention back on Margaery. “But courtly manners? I wonder if he’s ever even heard of them… he has all the charm of a lobster.” He paused, raising a brow. “Nothing at all like Lord Renly, if what I’ve heard is true.”

Sansa had to work very hard to keep her face free of emotion. _Did he hit his head on the way over here?_

Again it was as if Margaery’s face froze over. But she recovered quickly and glared. “You tease me, my lord.” Next she glared at Willas. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Willas raised his palms. “We had barely been introduced when His Grace stalked off like a raging bull,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I thought I had offended him somehow, but then I remembered I hadn’t spoken a word to him.”

Robb burst into laughter. But Sansa could not laugh. The knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach - Sansa’s constant companion since the proposal - tightened. “My septa always says one must look beyond the surface,” she said, inserting a firm note of finality into her tone. “But I’ve just remembered, I left my book of poetry out in the gardens. I should go find it. Pardon me.”

“Take Grey Wind,” Robb said casually, still chuckling. “He could use a bit of exercise.”

Grey Wind got up as soon as Robb said his name and yawned, displaying a truly staggering amount of razor-sharp teeth. 

Margaery looked ready to protest, so Sansa hurried to get up and start walking. Mother cast her a questioning look from her seat, but Sansa shook her head.

Sansa might have gone straight to her chambers if Robb hadn’t told her to take Grey Wind, but he looked as if he really could do with some fresh air, so she headed for the gardens just as she had said she would. Once she was there, she quickly realised two things. First, that it was very dark in the gardens with only the moon and the stars to light her way. And second, that she wasn’t dressed warmly enough for a prolonged walk. But she decided she would brave the dark and the cold for a little while. _For you,_ she thought, scratching Grey Wind behind an ear. He huffed, a great cloud of steam rising into the frigid evening air as he did.

Why had Robb thought it a good idea to speak to Margaery about the king? And what had possessed him to mention Lord Renly like that? Mother and Father had said they should avoid such topics with the Tyrells, and keep their relations light and friendly. _What must Willas think?_ Sansa wished Robb had stayed away. Everything had been going so well before he’d arrived…

As she walked aimlessly around the familiar garden paths, her thoughts strayed to the way Willas had kissed her hand, and the way his skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and how he had practically said he wanted to give her a beautiful mare to ride.

Couldn’t it be possible that she would marry him and not the king? It was so easy to imagine herself as Lady Tyrell. She’d be just like Mother and Lady Alerie: dignified, beautiful, and a loving mother to lovely children with kind, brown eyes. She would learn to ride properly on horses like Goldmane, and go hawking with Willas and his eagle, and his lips would be soft and warm against hers…

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa came to a halt, her heart pounding. She had quite lost track of her surroundings, and the sharp voice had startled her. She looked around for Grey Wind and found him sniffing at a nearby tree trunk. He did not seem worried about the voice, which calmed her immediately. She turned around. “Yes?”

Even in the dark it was clear that it was the king. His figure was unmistakable. _Margaery is not wrong; he is striking._ For a moment she just stared at him, wondering what he was doing by himself in the gardens. But then she remembered her manners and gave a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“What are you doing here?” His voice was still sharp. She wondered now how she had failed to recognise it.

“Grey Wind needed some fresh air,” she said, gesturing at her brother’s wolf. Grey Wind stopped sniffing the tree and looked up, cocking his head to the left.

“I fail to see how that is your responsibility. He is your brother’s animal, is he not?” Stannis scowled. Sansa said nothing. “You were not charmed by Highgarden’s heir, then?” Stannis said after a lengthy pause, his eyes narrowed.

Heat rose to her face, drawing Sansa’s attention to the fact that the rest of her was very cold. She shivered, but resisted the impulse to hug herself around the middle for warmth. “I don’t know,” she said, completely at a loss. What could she say? That she _had_ been charmed? That she’d much rather marry Willas than him?

“Do not be fooled by that family,” he said, stalking closer to her, his eyes flashing. Grey Wind went very still and watched him, but did not growl. “They will do anything and everything to win you over with their honeyed words. But it is power they want. Not you.” There was a bitterness in his voice that gave Sansa pause.

_Is he talking to me? Or himself?_

“As you say, Your Grace,” she murmured, looking down at the path they were both standing on.

“Must I remind you again to speak your mind, my lady?” Stannis sounded impatient. “I know your head is not as empty as it seems.”

She looked up at him, doing her best to read his face in the moonlight. His eyes glittered, but the rest of his face was all a study in shadow. She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I was brought up in the understanding that a good lord treats his bannermen fairly.”

Stannis took a step closer, and the shadows on his face shifted. He was glaring at her. “You believe I’ve been unjust?” 

“I don’t know,” she said softly, her face warming under his scrutiny. “But it seems to me…” she bit her lip, her stomach churning. _What am I doing?_ She should not be speaking to the king in such a frank manner. Why should he care what she thought of anything?

“Go on,” Stannis commanded.

She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. “It seems to me that you have never forgiven Lord Tyrell for the part he played in Robert’s Rebellion. And - and you treat Lady Margaery poorly because of it, though she has done nothing to deserve your ill humour. That does not seem just to me.”

For a moment Stannis just stared at her. “And what, pray tell, do you know of the part Lord Tyrell played in my brother’s rebellion?” His face was devoid of all emotion.

 _Rats._ Her stomach protested violently. “He laid siege to Storm’s End, Your Grace.”

“Have you lived through a siege, my lady?” Stannis asked, his voice suddenly much softer than it had been before. And yet there was something chilling about his tone that made her unsure whether she had goose flesh due only to the cold.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. But she did not want him to go back to thinking she was empty-headed, so she took a breath and met his eyes. “But I know you were forced to - to eat rats to survive.”

He was quiet for a moment, his breathing louder than before. “It is said we survived on rats and boot leather, yes. We did.” His eyes were fixed on her, but he was seeing into the past. “But I doubt you know the worst of it.” His jaw clenched and he was silent for a moment. “Not only did Mace Tyrell lay siege to Storm’s End, but he feasted within sight of my walls, night after night, while good men starved to death.” He paused, still staring through her. “Some turned traitor and tried to join him. I considered catapulting them into the middle of his camp for that.” There was another lengthy pause. “The night before Davos Seaworth smuggled his onions through the lines we were close to eating the traitors instead.” His eyes were suddenly in the present again, boring into her. “Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked sharply. “I was mere hours away from feeding my little brother, blood of my blood, traitorous human flesh. It was that or watch him starve; those were my choices.”

Sansa was too horrified to speak. Thankfully, Grey Wind walked over to her, pressing his bulk close. She buried a hand in his fur, wishing she could bury her face in it too.

“So you’re right.” Stannis went on in a clipped tone. “I have not forgiven Mace Tyrell. And whether he murdered my wife or not, I would sooner wed a white walker than any daughter of his.”

Sansa’s insides were churning. It was not hard to understand why Stannis would feel that way. Not after what he had just told her. Her heart sped up and slowed uncomfortably in turns, and she wanted to open her mouth to get more air. She looked at her hand, her fingers surrounded by Grey Wind’s soft fur. 

_Lady’s fur was softer. I brushed her every day._

The thought of Lady brought a peculiar stillness to her, and a strength she had not realised she possessed. “I understand, Your Grace,” she said, even though the horrors he had described were beyond her imagination. “But Lady Margaery has done nothing wrong,” she went on in a steady voice, lifting her gaze up to meet his eyes once more. “We cannot choose the family we are born to.”

Stannis appeared stricken for a moment, and his face looked shockingly vulnerable without his customary frown. He was looking at her the way he had in his solar again, as if he were truly seeing her; as if he were considering her words. But almost as soon as it began, the moment ended. He scowled. “What would you have me do? Give her false hope? That would hardly be just; there is nothing for her here.”

 _I would have you treat her the way a lady of her station should be treated by her king. With kindness and courtesy._ Sansa kept her thoughts to herself. “You must do what you think is right, my king,” she said instead, lowering her lashes.

“I have told your father what I believe is the right course of action,” Stannis said. He was close enough to her now that she could see his jaw working. “And yet he delays.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, burying her hand further into Grey Wind’s fur, “but I don’t believe the course of action you have suggested is fair either.” Sansa had been thinking about this for several days, turning the matter over and over in her mind, and she was sure she was right.

“What do you mean?” The sound of his teeth grinding together made her wince.

“Your plan has my father taking all the risk, while you take none.” Her heart was beating so fast that Sansa thought it might be buzzing in her chest. _Tyrells aside, Father might have wanted to use Robb and me to strengthen his bonds with his bannermen. He might have planned to heal the breach with the West. We are important to him, and you mean to dispose of us both in a way that benefits you and may put us in harm’s way. There would be benefits for us too, yes. I know I would be queen. But Shireen is of an age to be betrothed, and yet you have not breathed a word of using her to help your cause. **It isn’t fair.**_

“I am king,” Stannis said, taking yet another step closer, towering over her. She could feel the heat of his body radiating from him. He did not seem even a little intimidated by Grey Wind, though the wolf’s hackles were raised. “And while I have no sons I must avoid risks to my life. The last thing the realm needs is another war for the Iron Throne.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” she said, her breath catching. Her mind was not working properly now that he was standing so very near. Everything she had wanted to say seemed to escape her, and her knees were threatening to buckle. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me.”

He withdrew, though his eyes lingered on her. “You’re not sufficiently dressed for the cold,” he said flatly. “You should go back inside.” With one more lingering stare, his eyes glittering in the dark, his figure cloaked in shadow, he turned and strode off.

Breathing now as if she had just been running from one end of the gardens to the other, Sansa closed her eyes and gave into the urge to hug Grey Wind, burying her face in his fur. She was sure she would have remained there for some time, rooted to the spot by her tumultuous emotions, but she was shivering ever more violently, and she knew she needed to heed the king’s council.

Sansa chose a route to her chambers that Robb had shown her, knowing that it was not commonly used. She did not want to face any servants in the state she was in. She walked in silence, lost in her own thoughts, not paying her surroundings much attention. But she still noticed when Grey Wind suddenly sniffed the air and began walking faster. At first she kept pace with him, but when he sped up even more she couldn’t keep up. She was just about to round a corner when a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Are you sure we won’t be seen?” It was a soft, feminine voice.

Sansa held her breath and listened.

“Don’t worry, no one uses these passages. Lord Varys told me,” a familiar male voice said. Grey Wind’s eagerness made sense now. It was Robb.

“Oh!” the lady suddenly exclaimed. “He startled me.”

Sansa heard Robb clap Grey Wind’s flank with a low chuckle. “Have a good walk with Sansa?” he asked in the tone of voice he usually used when he spoke to Grey Wind. He changed his tone and addressed the lady: “Don’t worry, I doubt Sansa is here. He would have taken her to her chambers before finding me.”

“Good,” the lady said. “Now, where were we?” she added, her voice a teasing purr.

“I believe we were… right about… here…” Robb said, his words interrupted by the muffled sound of skin against skin, and the faint smacks of lips kissing.

Blood rushed to Sansa’s face where she stood. _I should go back._ But she was frozen in place.

“Do you think he would ever kiss you like this?” her brother’s voice whispered ardently. “Gods, you are beautiful…”

“Don’t talk about it,” the lady said, sounding equal parts anguished and ecstatic. “Just kiss me…”

“I would kiss you like this every day,” Robb promised heatedly, “every hour of every day, and twice as much in the night.” There was a moan, and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. _I should go. I should go._ But she didn’t go. “Can you feel that? That is how much I desire you.”

“Gods,” the lady moaned. “Please…”

“I hear the king marched to his wife’s bed once a year as if he were marching to his own funeral,” Robb went on, his voice deeper and rougher than Sansa had ever heard it. “I would _worship_ you.”

 _The king?_ The blood drained from Sansa’s face. Slowly, and very quietly, she risked a peek around the corner.

Robb had Margaery Tyrell pinned against the wall, his mouth on her neck and his hand up her skirts. Grey Wind was sitting quietly nearby, his head cocked to the side as he observed the couple.

Sansa hurriedly withdrew, both hands clamped over her mouth. _Is he mad?_

“The North is as large as the other six kingdoms put together,” Robb said between kisses. “And the Lady of Winterfell is practically queen. You would answer to no one.”

“Stop talking,” Margaery said, and the sounds of kissing grew louder.

Sansa finally found the wherewithal to move. Carefully, she retraced her steps, thanking the gods for the soft slippers she wore. She ended up having to take the usual route to her chambers, but as it was quite late she only saw two servants. But when she reached the Stark apartments she saw that old Tomard was on guard, and he had clearly been waiting for her.

“Are you well?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern. “Lord Stark expected you to return much sooner.”

“I took Grey Wind for a walk. He just left me to find Robb. I was quite safe.” It was all true, but Sansa blushed regardless.

But Tomard just smiled and nodded. “Have a good night m’lady.”

“Good night,” she said, giving him a relieved smile in return as he held the door open for her.

She was glad to find that her parents were not lying in wait for her within. She would have to speak to them soon, but she could not bear the idea of doing so now. Her head was pounding, and her skin was itchy, and she just wanted to lie down in her chambers and never get up.

_Do Mother and Father know what Robb is up to? Or is he acting on his own?_

Her maid seemed to sense her mood and did not speak as she quickly and efficiently helped Sansa ready herself for bed.

But as soon as her head touched her pleasantly cool pillow, images of Robb and Margaery filled her mind, followed by the frightening image of Stannis in the moonlight, telling her of the siege with sharp shadows playing on his face. She turned to lie on her other side, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. _Willas, Willas, Willas,_ she chanted, wanting to think of something pleasant, but the image of him became distorted even as she fought to hold onto it, and his face gave way until he was Mace instead, his cheeks fat, and his nose ruddy with drink. Or was he King Robert? He watched as Lady starved to death, and then he ate her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I totally did add that line Stannis made about wanting to marry a white walker rather than Margaery because I was inspired by the comments you guys have made. Thank you. ♥
> 
> Also, if you caught the tiny Pride and Prejudice reference, you get a cookie.


	5. An Eventful Morning

“I’m going to be the Lord of Storm’s End!” Edric crowed, waving his wooden sword over his head and running at Arya.

Arya sidestepped neatly, her own wooden sword seemingly an extension of her arm as she moved. “And I’m Queen Nymeria!” she shouted in return, her face glowing with exhilaration.

Shireen and Patchface stood to the side, observing the two. Shireen had a look of longing on her face, but did not pick up a wooden sword and join in. Ever since Edric had arrived in King’s Landing along with the Tyrells and Lord Renly’s retinue, he had spent most of his days with Shireen and Arya. Sansa knew they had been getting along quite well, but Shireen always hesitated to join the more rambunctious games Arya and Edric would play.

“No, I’m _really_ going to be the Lord of Storm’s End,” Edric said, swishing his sword through the air and giving Arya a haughty look. “You’re not really Queen Nymeria.”

Arya frowned. “But you’re a Storm,” she said. “My brother’s a Snow, and he can’t be lord of anything because of it. I don’t think it’s fair, but Father says that’s just how things are.”

Sansa knew Arya wasn’t quite right in her interpretation of what Father had said about the matter, but she did not think Arya would listen to her if she tried to explain it. Bastards could be legitimised, and they certainly could inherit. _I will have to remember to ask Father to talk to her._

Edric’s face reddened. “Shut up!” He tried to hit Arya with his sword, but Arya blocked the blow easily, somehow using Edric’s own momentum to trip him up. He fell to the ground with a loud groan.

As Sansa had been trusted to watch the three of them and make certain they did not come to harm, she walked over to Arya and Edric now. “Father says you’re not to hurt each other,” she reminded them. She arranged her face into her best impression of Mother and looked at Arya. “You won’t be allowed to continue your lessons with Syrio if you use what he teaches you like this.”

“He was being stupid,” Arya grumbled, but she was already offering Edric a hand up.

Edric swatted her hand away. “I’m not stupid! And I don’t need your help!” He got to his feet unassisted.

“Don’t call him stupid, Arya,” Sansa said, frowning at them both. “That’s unkind.”

“Well, he’s saying stupid things,” Arya insisted, crossing her arms and glaring. “He’s never going to be Lord of Storm’s End. Tell him.”

“King, brother, bastard,” giggled Patchface from somewhere to Sansa’s left, “the blood goes up, the blood goes down, the blood goes all around…”

Sansa shivered. She did her best to appear unbothered, however. “Ser Cortnay Penrose means to train you to be the castellan of Storm’s End,” Sansa said gently to Edric, “which is almost like being its lord. You must be very proud.” In truth, he would likely be the closest thing to a lord Storm’s End would have for many years to come. Stannis was unlikely to father one son, much less two, so the next Lord of Storm’s End would probably be one of Shireen’s sons. Sansa had heard Mother and Father speaking of it not two days ago. _But Edric will never be legitimised. King Stannis would rather die._

Edric raised his chin. “He has already made me his squire.”

“How impressive!” Sansa said, smiling at him. “Before long, I shall be calling you ser,” she added, watching as Edric puffed his chest out, his anger quite forgotten.

“I could be a squire,” Arya said, still glaring. “It’s not hard.”

“You’re a girl,” Edric said, rolling his eyes. “Girls can’t be squires. Or knights.”

“I can fight better than any boy! I can fight better than you!” Arya had lifted her sword again, fire in her eyes.

Edric lifted his own sword. “Let’s see, then!”

Sansa would have said something at that point, but she didn’t get the chance.

“That’s enough,” a deep, sharp voice said. It sounded as if the person who spoke was standing right where Shireen and Patchface had been standing. “It’s time for your lessons. Get inside.”

Sansa turned to look, her heart missing a beat when she saw that the king was standing next to his daughter. _How long has he been there?_ He met her eyes, and she stopped breathing. Every harsh line of his face seemed to be a pointed arrow, poised to strike, and his gaze was so fixed, so intent, that she was certain he was reading her very thoughts.

He nodded at her. Just once.

She gave a quick curtsey in return, her face flushing.

Once Stannis, Shireen, Patchface, and Edric were all gone. Arya looked up at Sansa with a forlorn expression. “It’s not fair,” she said. “I’d be just as good a squire as him.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t understand why Arya would ever even want to be a squire. “I know,” she eventually said, because it was probably true. Arya was good at riding and fighting and making friends. If she weren’t a girl, she’d make an excellent squire. “But we should go. Septa Mordane must be waiting for us.”

“I hate sewing,” Arya muttered under her breath. 

A pang of sympathy shot through her. _I know._

***

Sansa was determined to speak to her parents about what she had seen the previous night before they left the Stark apartments for the day. It meant getting up earlier than she preferred, but she didn’t care. She had to know whether Robb’s behaviour would change anything. Perhaps Father would be forced to come to a decision sooner than he wished? If Robb had compromised Margaery… if she had given him her maiden’s gift… _If Robb must marry Margaery, must I then marry the king?_ Her gut clenched, and she decided not to break her fast.

Father’s solar was empty, but the door of her mother’s solar was ajar. Sansa almost knocked, but stopped when she heard voices carrying from within.

“Are you certain?” Mother was saying in a quiet, intent tone of voice.

“Yes. You were right; whenever I mentioned the king and his obvious lack of interest in her, I could see it in her eyes.” Robb was speaking equally quietly. “I do not think she truly wishes to marry him, though she goes along with her family’s wishes obediently enough.”

“And she allowed your kisses?” Mother asked, sounding thoughtful.

Sansa covered her mouth with a hand. _Mother knows?_

“Enthusiastically,” Robb said, clearly amused.

“Why would she risk that?” Mother asked, her voice so low that Sansa had to strain to make it out. “The Queen of Thorns must know better than to put all her eggs in one basket… Perhaps marrying Lady Margaery to the king is not the only path the Tyrells are considering.”

_What other paths are there?_

“If I marry Lady Margaery, and Sansa marries the king, they would be sisters,” Robb pointed out.

“That would not be enough for them. Mace Tyrell means to have his grandchildren crowned, mark my words. I wonder... “ Mother paused for a moment. “They brought Willas to the city for a reason. They intend for us all to think they brought him here for Sansa, but I’m not so certain.”

A pang shot through her at the mention of Willas, and her heart squeezed at the thought that he might soon be betrothed to someone else. _Who?_ Her stomach sank as soon as the question occurred to her; the answer was obvious.

 _But would the king ever agree to it?_ After his speech in the garden last night, Sansa found it hard to believe. _No. I must be wrong. Mother must be wrong._

“Sansa knows not to promise them anything, doesn’t she?” Robb asked, his voice a little anxious.

“Yes, of course.”

“Only I’m not sure she understands half of what is happening,” Robb went on, blowing out a loud breath.

“She knows more than she lets on,” Mother said, sighing too. “But it’s good that she appears unaware. I believe - no, I am _sure_ \- that the king has taken a liking to her because she is innocent of the court machinations that he constantly complains about. He loathes schemers and false friends.”

“The king has taken a liking to her?” Robb’s voice was doubtful. “He does not seem to like anyone.”

“Believe me,” Mother said firmly, her tone satisfied. “He summoned Ned at the crack of dawn, offering more support and supplies for the Wall than Ned would ever have dreamed of asking. He wants Sansa.”

Sansa clamped her hand more tightly over her nose and mouth. 

“Is Father going to accept?”

“He hasn’t yet, but the king’s patience is thinning. Your lord father told me he intended to go to the godswood to think it over. Gods willing, he will come back with a decision.”

Her heart beating at a frantic pace, Sansa backed away from the door as quietly as she could. She could not listen to more. She needed to get away. The air was too close and too heavy. She couldn’t… she couldn’t breathe.

Without thinking, she followed her feet outside. Tomard said something about taking guards with her as she left the apartments, but she ignored him, her stomach twisting and turning worse than ever. She needed fresh air. With a half-formed plan to talk to her father, she walked in the direction of the godswood, her mind stuck on the conversation she had just overheard.

 _The king has taken a liking to me? And Mother thinks it is because he believes me to be an innocent little fool?_ It didn’t quite fit. Both times when Stannis had spoken to her alone, he seemed interested in what she was truly thinking. _He doesn't want an empty-headed wife._

She was so focused on her own thoughts that she did not notice the man who was suddenly on the path right in front of her. Had she not been walking at a fairly sedate pace, she might have barreled him over, but he caught her instead, steadying them both.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, his tone surprised. “Are you well?”

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she realised she had walked right into Willas Tyrell. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” she said, her insides quivering when he offered her his free arm, his intention to lead them to a nearby bench quite clear. “I’m quite well. Please forgive me, I was not watching where I was going.” They sat down on the bench, and Sansa watched as Willas carefully placed his cane within reach. 

“Nothing to forgive, my lady. But you seem to have left the Tower of the Hand in a hurry,” his eyes ran over her form, a deep furrow between his brow. “You’re not dressed to be outside. And should you not have guards with you?” As he spoke, he unclasped his rich, velvet cloak and swept it around her shoulders. It was trimmed with marten fur, and Sansa immediately felt as if she had swallowed an entire cup of piping hot tea. She half expected the cloak to smell of rosewater when she inhaled, but was pleasantly surprised to find that it smelled more herbal. _Thyme?_

“Thank you,” she said, her heart speeding up. _He is so gallant._ The knot in her stomach squirmed. _Surely he would not be so attentive if he is soon to be betrothed to… another._ She looked away from him and gathered her wits. “As for my guards, I could ask you the same question.”

“I suppose we are both fond of solitude,” Willas said, giving her a soft smile. There was still concern in his eyes. “Though one is never truly alone in the Red Keep.” He glanced at a nearby bush as he spoke, an eyebrow raised. “Lord Varys has his little birds everywhere.”

Sansa looked at the bush too, and was surprised to see a small boy kneeling behind it, apparently pruning the bare branches. He did not seem very competent at all, however. He was holding his shears awkwardly, and moving slowly. _Yes, he must be reporting to Lord Varys._ As soon as the thought had crossed her mind, another more frightening thought followed. _Did Lord Varys have eyes in that old passageway last night? Does he know what happened between Robb and Margaery?_

“Are you sure you are well, my lady?” Willas asked, covering one of her hands with his own. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Sansa glanced at him and then back at the boy behind the bush. But the boy was gone. Unnerved, she did her best to smile. “I suppose I’m just a little tired,” she said. “I did not sleep very well.” It was not a lie; she’d had terrible nightmares, and then she’d made herself get up earlier than she was used to. _And I haven’t even broken my fast._

“I’ve read that a little lavender under your pillow can be remarkably helpful to fitful sleepers,” Willas said, squeezing her hand lightly and letting go. “And I find that drinking an infusion of chamomile before retiring sometimes helps me.” He looked deep into her eyes. “I know my mother usually keeps lavender oil about her. I could ask her to share it with you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, her blush rapidly returning as she held his gaze. “But I couldn’t possibly ask you to inconvenience Lady Tyrell over such a thing. I’m sure I’ll sleep much better tonight. I usually don’t have any trouble.”

“It would be no trouble at all,” Willas said, that soft smile of his on his lips again. “Was there anything in particular that disturbed your sleep?”

Sansa shook her head. “Strange nightmares,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I don’t recall what they were about.” She paused and bit her lip. “Well, I think I remember Lady being there, but it’s all very unclear.”

“Lady?”

Sansa looked up. Willas looked genuinely interested. “She was my direwolf,” she said in a small voice. “But she was killed.”

Willas clasped her hand again. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice serious. “You must have loved her very much.”

Sansa blinked back tears. “I did,” she said.

Willas said nothing, though he gave her a sympathetic look, and Sansa was grateful for the chance to compose herself. 

“If my sister eventually has her way and you do visit Highgarden,” he said after a while, his voice gentle, “I would show you all of my animals. I have birds, horses, and hounds… so many that I almost lose count sometimes.” He went on for a while, describing some of his favourites, and telling Sansa a story of a litter of pups that had charmed him so excessively that he had been unable to part with a single one. Eventually he paused, squeezing her hand. “I know no other animal companion could take Lady’s place in your heart, but perhaps you could make some new friends.”

“Like Honey?” Sansa said, shooting him a small smile. 

He nodded, returning her smile. “Exactly.”

“Do you think your animals would like me?” she asked, thinking wistfully of visiting birds and hounds and horses with Willas. “I’m really not very good with horses.”

“I think they’d be enchanted. As I’m sure everyone who has had the pleasure of your company must inevitably become.” Without breaking eye contact with her, he brought her hand to his lips for a courtly kiss.

Sansa had to close her eyes at that, and though she willed her heart to slow down with all her might, it simply pounded harder. Her eyes snapped open when Willas suddenly got to his feet, moving as quickly as someone with a cane could reasonably be expected to move. His face had gone blank, and he was staring at something behind her.

“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head respectfully.

 _The king? Again?_ Was he following her? Sansa quickly got to her feet too, turning as she did. The king was on the path right near the bench where she and Willas had been sitting, and a vein was throbbing on the side of his neck. Ser Barristan was with him, a grim expression on his face.

Sansa curtseyed and looked from the king to Willas, uncertain of what to do or say next.

“What is this?” Stannis asked. “Why are you out here alone?”

“Your Grace,” Willas inclined his head. “Lady Sansa and I were just talking about the goshawk I gave her. I bred her myself. An excellent bird for hawking. Not that the Crown doesn’t have excellent birds, too. I’m… I’m sure.” Willas cleared his throat and stopped talking. Sansa would have stopped too, if the king had been looking at her like that. It was as if Stannis had replaced his eyes with Valyrian steel daggers.

“Why is she wearing your cloak?”

“I’m afraid I rushed outside without dressing properly for the weather, Your Grace,” Sansa said, doing her best not to wilt now that Stannis turned his gaze on her. “I expect I’d be quite frozen but for his gallantry.”

“Gallantry, is it?” Stannis snorted, aiming a sour look at Willas.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said politely, pulling the cloak tighter around herself and lifting her chin. It _had_ been gallant, and she was not wrong to say so.

“You would have been wise to send her inside,” Stannis said to Willas with a scowl.

_Like you did last night?_

“You’re right, Your Grace. Of course that is what I should have done,” Willas said, bowing his head. “I suppose I simply acted as if I had found my sister Margaery in such a state in the gardens at home. I leave Highgarden but rarely.”

“Perhaps you should return there, then,” Stannis said, still glaring at Willas as if he wished he’d wither and die on the spot.

Willas did not seem overly perturbed. “My lord father requested my presence here,” he said evenly. “And though I do miss home, I must honour his wishes.”

The king drew breath - no doubt about to deliver some scathing remark about Lord Tyrell - but Ser Barristan addressed Sansa before he could get the words out.

“And you, Lady Sansa? Do you miss home?” Ser Barristan’s voice was courteous and kind, but his eyes were fixed on the king, and there was a crease between his eyebrows.

The king’s piercing gaze landed on her, and her mouth felt suddenly dry. She glanced at Ser Barristan again, and this time he looked at her, giving her an encouraging nod.

 _It doesn’t matter what I say. He just wants my help changing the subject._ Slowly, she began to speak. “It is not as cold here as it is in Winterfell.” She tugged her borrowed cloak closer. “I’ve made some lovely new friends. His Grace and the princess have been most kind, and Lord Davos and his wife have been such welcoming hosts.” She paused, wondering whether to leave it at that. Stannis was still staring at her however, and something in his gaze compelled her to go on. “I have grown up knowing that it will not fall to me to become the Lady of Winterfell, but that has only made me cherish my time at home with my family all the more.” She stole a glance at Willas and took a steadying breath. “I believe I will always carry Winterfell in my heart.” _Right next to Lady._ She smiled at Ser Barristan. “As I’m sure you carry Harvest Hall in yours.”

Ser Barristan nodded, his countenance thoughtful.

When she turned her gaze on the king, Stannis was both staring at her and through her, his eyes betraying a bitter sadness that held her captive. He kept staring for a long moment. When he finally blinked and seemed to come back to himself, he said nothing. He did not even snort. Sansa started to breathe again.

“Shall I escort you to your apartments, my lady?” Willas offered at length, looking at her and the king in turn, a small frown on his face.

“I will do that,” Stannis said curtly. “Now take your cloak back before _you_ freeze to death.” Under his breath he added, “gallantry indeed. Idiocy more like.”

Sansa doubted the king would mourn Willas if he did end up freezing, but she could not think of that while Willas was gently recovering his cloak from her, smiling apologetically as he did. _He is so handsome. Not beautiful like Loras and Margaery, but still so well made._ His eyes were crinkling at the corners again, and she wished… oh, how she wished.

Willas retreated, sweeping his cloak about himself quite expertly given that he was doing it while juggling his cane.

With an internalised sigh, Sansa made herself turn to look at Stannis instead, and saw that he was rigidly offering her his right arm. She accepted after the briefest hesitation, holding her breath as she curled her hand around the crook of his elbow as lightly as she could. The leather of his jerkin was dry and cool to the touch.

Without another word, Stannis started walking. It was not quite as quick as his usual pace; Sansa was able to keep up without much trouble. She resisted the urge to turn her head to catch a glimpse of Willas, and listened instead, hearing that Ser Barristan soon fell behind, giving them a semblance of privacy as they made their way towards the Tower of the Hand.

“You should not make a habit of being out of doors so inadequately dressed.”

Sansa glanced up at Stannis but he was not looking at her. He was staring straight ahead. “It was not my intention to make it a habit, Your Grace.”

“What was your intention?” he asked, his arm tensing. It had already been so rigid beneath her hand that she should not have thought it possible, but clearly it was.

“I was not thinking,” Sansa admitted. “But I wanted to find my father.”

“Why weren’t you thinking? You’ve proved to be capable of the feat.”

An odd mixture of annoyance and gratification swirled inside her. _Is that his way of giving a compliment?_ She considered inventing some reason or refusing to speak, but in the end she decided the truth would be best. “I overheard my brother and my lady mother talking, and heard things I should not have. I confess I was upset.”

“What did they say that upset you?” For the first time, Stannis glanced at her.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it is a private matter.” She glanced back, meeting his eyes for a moment before resolutely staring ahead again.

Surprisingly, Stannis did not press her further, and they walked without speaking for a little while. The leather warmed under Sansa’s fingers, but his arm remained tense.

“You did not arrange to meet with Willas Tyrell?” Stannis suddenly asked. “He did not send for you?”

Blood rushed to her face. “No, Your Grace. It was a chance meeting.” She glanced up to see Stannis clenching his jaw.

“Last night you would not say whether he has managed to charm you. But it is clear that he has. Did you not listen to a word I said?” 

“I did listen, Your Grace,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice calm and even. _But did you listen to me? Willas is no more guilty of his lord father’s sins than Lady Margaery is._ “And I have made him no promises. But he seems kind.”

“And gallant?” Stannis asked, his tone mocking.

“Have you something against gallantry, Your Grace?”

“Words are wind,” Stannis said. “And gallant words and courtesies all seem to blow through a pigsty. They reek of shit.”

Her face became hotter. “Do you mean to imply that coarse words smell of roses, Your Grace?”

“I mean to imply that the truth is more pleasing to me than empty words.” Frustration had edged into his voice, making his sentences sound sharp and angry. “And do not speak to me of the smell of roses. I am sick to death of roses.”

 _I am sick to death of your rudeness._ “Well, if it is the truth that pleases you -”

“It is.”

“- then I should tell you that you’re right. I find Willas Tyrell to be charming.” She paused to draw in a shaky breath. Speaking like this was terrifying, and she had barely dared to think of it last night. _But what have I to lose? Father may make his decision today._ The worst that could happen - Stannis deciding he did not want her after all - did not seem so bad at the moment. “He appears to be well-read, intelligent, kind, caring, and yes, gallant. I believe any lady should be lucky to marry a man with only half those qualities.”

“You think so? Even though he is crippled?” Stannis asked, his tone challenging.

Sansa was growing tired of that question. “He does not seem very crippled to me, Your Grace. And if I am to continue being truthful, I do not think gallantry and courtesy are just words. I believe they are actions as well.”

Stannis snorted. “Mummery. At court they all smile their false smiles and make their pretty gestures, hoping I will be fooled. All hoping to conceal the ugly truth that lies beneath.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said softly, thinking fleetingly of Joffrey’s moods. “But I know my mother and father speak to each other with courtesy. It is a way of showing respect, is it not?”

“A way of feigning respect,” Stannis countered.

“I think we all know when it is feigned and when it is not… Your Grace.”

She could see with her peripheral vision that Stannis looked at her again, but she stubbornly did not turn her head to meet his gaze. He looked for what felt like a long time.

When they reached the door to the Stark apartments in the Tower of the Hand, Stannis cleared his throat. Sansa let go of his arm and faced him. Ser Barristan lingered at the foot of the stairs, but Tomard was looking at them both in silent astonishment.

Stannis took her hand in his and twitched, pulling it upwards and then stopping. It was almost as if he had intended to kiss her hand but decided against it halfway through. “I believe this is where I leave you, my lady.” Stannis spoke stiffly, and looked both cross and discomfited. “Try to remember a cloak the next time you decide to go out of doors.” He released her, dropping his hand to his side quickly, balling it into a fist.

She curtseyed. “I will, my king. Thank you for escorting me.” Somehow she managed to keep her bewilderment from her tone.

He nodded, stared at her for a moment, and then turned to address Tomard. “Is Lord Stark within?”

Tomard shook his head. “I believe he’s in the godswood, Your Grace,” he said, sweat pearling on his forehead. “Has been for some time.”

Stannis gave another nod, before turning swiftly to leave. Sansa watched him go, every muscle in her body suddenly exhausted. She made herself smile however, as she did not wish to worry poor Tomard. Tomard was not looking at her, however. He had busied himself with finding a handkerchief, and was now mopping his face. 

“Not as cheerful as his brother, that one,” he said, shuddering.

“No,” Sansa said softly, still thinking of the king’s odd behaviour a moment ago. She could not decide whether he had been attempting a display of genuine courtesy, or whether he had been mocking her. And had he been scolding her when he had talked of remembering cloaks? Or was he concerned about her wellbeing? 

Her stomach growled in a most unladylike way. Blushing, she cast Tomard an apologetic look. “I had best go and break my fast.”

Tomard grinned. “I think you better had, m’lady.”

Mother was pacing in the hall directly within, and looked relieved when she saw Sansa enter. “Where have you been?” she asked, coming to a halt. “Your maid said you left an hour ago.”

“I went to look for Father,” Sansa said, not meeting her eyes. “But I found Willas Tyrell instead. And then the king came and escorted me back here.”

Mother pursed her lips. “So he is keeping an eye on you, then. I thought as much. Have you eaten?”

Sansa shook her head.

They sat down together in the small dining room. The windows were large and faced east, so it was always bright early in the day. Soon a pair of servants appeared with bread and freshly-churned butter, a soft white cheese, jam, and tea.

“Tell me what happened, sweetling,” Mother said once the servants had gone.

Sansa gave her mother an account of her morning, describing her encounter with Willas in detail, but leaving out most of her conversation with the king. She did not tell her mother what she had overheard of her conversation with Robb, either.

“I see,” Mother said when Sansa finished her tale. “But why did you go off to look for your lord father in such a hurry? It’s not like you to forget your cloak.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, not wishing to lie. She looked at the table, noticing some interesting patterns in the wood. She considered having a bit more bread, but she had already eaten two slices. Her teacup was empty.

“Are you worried about your father’s decision?”

Sansa glanced up at her mother’s furrowed brow and shook her head. “No… I mean, I am. But I - I saw something. Last night.”

Her mother sat up straighter in her seat. “What did you see?”

“Robb was… with Lady Margaery. Alone.” Sansa watched her mother’s face closely. “Even though you and Father told him not to.”

Her mother closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling loudly. “Your Father did not want Robb interfering with Lady Margaery or confusing things,” she said, opening her eyes. “He is an honourable man.”

“But?”

“But I asked Robb to speak to Lady Margaery if an opportunity arose.”

Sansa frowned at the table. “Father doesn’t know?”

Mother poured them both more tea and sighed. “He, much like the king, believes himself above court politics. It nearly got them both killed in the war.”

A fist seemed to reach into her chest and squeeze Sansa’s heart. _Father came close to dying?_ Hands shaking, she brought her refreshed cup to her lips in silence, trying to make her mind still.

For a while, neither lady spoke.

“I believe your father may make his decision today,” Mother said gently, breaking the silence. “The king spoke to him this morning.”

Sansa almost said that she knew, but stopped herself in time. “Oh.”

“The king would treat you well,” Mother continued in the same gentle voice. “And though he is older than Ned and I would have wished, he remains strong and healthy.”

“Could I not have Willas?” Sansa asked, the question bursting out in a rush. “I like him.”

Mother moved to sit close by her, and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Is the king so terrible?” she asked, stroking Sansa’s hair. “You would be queen.”

The knot in her stomach had become an enormous tangle that left no space for anything else. “I know.” 

“I did not like your father very much when I married him, you know,” Mother said, kissing Sansa’s brow. “I liked his brother Brandon. He was full of life and mirth… tall, handsome.” She smiled sadly. “Ned was so serious compared to him, plainer, and so very somber.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped briefly open. She had known that Mother and Father had married for political reasons and that Mother had been engaged to Uncle Brandon first, but she had not known Mother had felt like that. “What changed?” she asked, turning her head and searching her mother’s face. “How did you come to love Father?”

“I won’t pretend that it was always easy,” Mother said, her gaze darkening for a moment. “But I did my best to accept him for who he is. Men rarely change, so it is important to find and love the good qualities that are already present, and learn to look past the qualities that are less to your liking.” 

Sansa nodded thoughtfully. That sounded much like what Septa Mordane always said. _Look beyond the surface._

“Your father has a good heart, Sansa,” her mother went on. “And I believe the king does, too. They are alike in many ways.”

“I don’t think King Stannis has a heart at all,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “Or if he has, it must be made of iron.”

Mother gave a little laugh. “The creatures with the hardest shells often have the softest underbellies,” she said, still smiling. But then her face grew serious. “In some ways, the king is a better man than even your lord father. I do not believe he would ever be disloyal to you, Sansa.”

Sansa looked down, thinking of Jon. _It is true. The king has never fathered a bastard._ She blew out a breath. “I still would rather have Willas.” _He would be loyal too, I’m sure._

“Sweetling, I understand. But I am beginning to suspect the Tyrells never truly meant him for you.” Mother’s voice was sympathetic. “They certainly made us think they were considering the match, but they have yet to make an official offer.”

“But you - Father said -”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Sansa’s heart sank. _It was all just for show?_ “But… he has been so attentive to me,” she whispered, a lump forming in her throat. It was silly. She had only spoken to him twice. And there had been no promise of anything.

Mother embraced her more fully, tucking her head under her chin and making soothing sounds. “I’m sure he is fond of you,” she said, stroking her back. “How could he not be?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa whispered, swallowing painfully. _Nothing does._

Hours later, when her father returned from the godswood and asked to speak to her alone, she rose to meet her fate with as much dignity as she could muster. But it was almost as if it was all happening to some other girl. As if she were flying above herself and observing from a distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your comments! I only had this chapter very roughly outlined, so I've been writing like a demon this week. Your comments gave me the fuel I needed. ♥


	6. Four Betrothals

“It seems the king is determined to have you,” Father said.

He had only just closed the door of his solar, and was still standing with his hand on the handle, his back to her. The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, and though it was not late in the afternoon, several lamps were already lit. She was sitting in front of his sturdy oak desk, her hands folded in her lap, her insides oddly cold. “Is he?” she said politely.

Father crossed the room and sat down beside her rather than behind the desk. “He’s spoken to me twice, today.” A flash of irritation crossed his face before he turned solemn once more. “He offered to send more men than I would ever have dared ask for to the Wall. More supplies and weapons, too.” His voice was strained.

“Unconditionally?”

Father sighed, and his gaze darkened. “He said he would send them whether I agree to the match or not. But I believe the condition is implied.”

“What of the other offers for me?” she said, looking at her hands again. Her right hand was folded over her left. She was trying not to squeeze too hard.

“There have been offers,” he said slowly, “that much is true.” He touched her cheek. “And I have pursued certain possibilities on your behalf. I wrote to Prince Doran Martell and asked what his plans are for his two sons, but it appears his older son died in Essos not very long ago, and I got the sense that he already has a lady in mind for his younger son.” He dropped his hand and looked down. “As things stand, the king’s offer is the only one worth considering. But if you do not wish to marry him, I’m sure there will be others soon enough.”

She closed her eyes. Vaguely she thought she should feel more disappointed. But it was almost as if she could not manage any more disappointment today; there had already been too much. She looked up. “Is it really my decision?”

Her father met her eyes for a moment before looking away. “I will not force you to accept His Grace, and I told him as much. But I would like you to hear me out.” He paused. “I had almost decided to deny him, but the king surprised me the second time he spoke to me today.”

“He did?” she asked. _Father almost denied the king?_

“Yes. He told me he’d be willing to -” He broke off, shaking his head. “I never would have expected it of him.”

“What did he say?” Unconsciously, she held her breath.

“He said he would promise Princess Shireen to Willas Tyrell.”

She inhaled sharply. _I knew it._ There was a painful twinge in her heart, but she made herself smile regardless. “It’s a good match,” she said. “They are both kind and gentle.” It was true. The pain in her heart turned sharp. _Shireen is fortunate._

“That may be so,” her father said heavily, “but he’d be playing right into Olenna Tyrell’s hands if what your mother suspects is true.”

She thought it over, nodding to herself. _Olenna made it seem like Willas was a rival for my hand. She probably knew the king would realise that a betrothal to Princess Shireen is the most effective way of both getting rid of his perceived rival and appeasing House Tyrell’s ambitions._ “I suppose he would.”

“Yes. And he’d be at great risk if he is correct about the murder of his wife.” He paused. “I was surprised that he’d be willing to put himself at risk in such a way, to marry his daughter into a House he loathes…” He rubbed his forehead. “As I said. He is determined to have you.”

“Why would he be at risk?” she asked, looking down at her lap again. She seemed to be crushing her left hand, but she could not feel it.

“With Willas married to Shireen, and no other heirs alive, the Tyrells would only need to murder him to practically make Willas king in his stead.”

 _Would they really go that far?_ She looked up and searched her father’s face. It was grim. “How does His Grace intend to prevent this from happening?”

“He had several ideas. But they do not matter. That particular betrothal will not come to pass.”

Sansa blinked, her stomach swooping as if she’d missed a step. “It won’t?” she asked, her voice coming out faint.

“The risk is too great.” Father paused, and looked at her for a long moment. “I suggested an alternate course of action.”

Her heart was beating in her throat, and the ice in her veins was melting. “What course?”

“I suggested Princess Shireen be betrothed to Lord Tommen Lannister instead.”

 _What?_

Sansa was silent for a long moment, doing her best not to appear as confused as she felt. Eventually she straightened her back and nodded. “I see,” she said, and tried to arrange her face into an expression of polite interest.

“The Tyrells are aware the Lannister gold mines are not as bottomless as they have always seemed.” Father said, leaning closer to her, his eyes lightening to a silvery grey. “But Lord Lannister is still rich. Betrothing Shireen to Tommen will send a message.”

She bit her lip. “Won’t Lord Tyrell be offended?” _Stannis would be choosing a disgraced lord over Lord Tyrell’s heir._ But as she considered the matter, she could see why the idea might have occurred to her father. Tommen owed Stannis his name and his life. He was a sweet boy - much closer to Shireen’s own age than Willas - and his castellan, Lord Blackberry, was a man Sansa knew to be loyal to the king. Shireen would be safe and well cared for, and despite everything, Tommen would grow to be a high lord; maybe even Warden of the West. _But if Stannis is still holding a grudge against Mace Tyrell over a siege that happened during Robert’s Rebellion, how must he feel about the child of the queen who betrayed his older brother, causing the war that followed?_

“No.” The light was still there in Father’s eyes. “Because I also suggested to the king that if you were to marry him, and the gods see fit to bless you with a son... your son should be promised to one of Lord Tyrell’s granddaughters.” He leaned closer to her. “Do you understand? In this way, House Lannister and House Tyrell would both be honoured.”

“I understand,” she said, though her eyebrows rose. _Father expects the king to honour the two Houses he hates above any other? Just for my hand?_ “But Lord Tyrell has no grandchildren.”

Father looked unconcerned. “He has three sons. One of them is bound to have a daughter. Your mother tells me Lady Leonette may be expecting even now.”

“Oh.” Sansa hadn’t been aware of that. She closed her eyes for a moment and considered what Father was saying. _The Tyrells would not harm the king or myself if we promise them our firstborn son. They would want us to be healthy and fit to produce an heir._ As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Robb’s voice followed. _’I hear the king marched to his wife’s bed once a year as if he were marching to his own funeral.’_ She saw a flash of herself lying in bed with King Stannis, an unhappy scowl on his face. It hit her like a punch in the gut. _Gods. How am I to bear it?_ She opened her eyes, desperate to escape her thoughts. “And what of Willas?”

“Lord Tyrell is free to find his heir a wife he deems suitable,” Father said, “but I did suggest to King Stannis that the Crown might recommend a match with Lady Myrcella Lannister.”

She squeezed her left hand so hard that it hurt. _The Lannisters again?_ “She is very pretty.” The words came out surprisingly clearly despite how choked up her throat was. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What did the king say about your suggestions?” _Or are they perhaps conditions rather than suggestions?_

Father’s expression became closed and hard. “He said he would agree if you would.” 

Again her eyebrows rose. “I see.”

“Do you intend to accept?” His eyes were now a stormy grey.

 _Is there anything else I can do?_ Her father had clearly worked hard to find a path that would satisfy the king’s wishes while not placing her or the king in harm’s way. She did not want him to think her ungrateful. _There are no other offers worth considering, and the king is determined. Father said it more than once._

Doing her best to steer clear of any thoughts that might lead back to the vision of the king scowling at her in a bedchamber, she let her mind linger on the man himself. They had hardly ever spoken until the morning he proposed, and the few conversations they’d managed to have had been tense and strange. _Has he truly taken a liking to me as Mother seems to think? Is that why he is so determined to have me?_ Her heart fluttered curiously. It would be special, would it not? If he truly wanted her for herself, and not just because he’d rather have anyone but Lady Margaery. 

_But do I want him?_

His form was not unpleasant; he was not fat like King Robert had been. His face, however, was not pleasing to her. _He is always so cross._ But even as she thought of his many piercing glares, she saw a flash of the stricken, vulnerable expression he had briefly worn in the moonlight yesterday evening, and the sadness that had filled his eyes when she had answered Ser Barristan’s question about whether she missed home. 

Another sad pair of eyes followed immediately behind, deep blue like the king’s. 

_I would be her new mother._

“Yes,” she said, and the knot in her stomach unraveled, leaving a weightless emptiness in its wake. The right hand released the left, and she smoothed the fabric of her skirt. She took a breath and marveled at the ease of it. It was almost as if she had been struggling to breathe underwater, but had now breached the surface and found clean air. _It is decided._

Her father reached for her hands and grasped them in his, bringing them to his lips and pressing a brief kiss to them. “Are you quite certain? You must not do this for my sake, Sansa. You must only do this if you are truly willing. I could not bear it if- “

“I am willing.” She took another, sweet deep breath. “Tell me what will happen now.”

Her father looked at her for a long moment, searching her face. “I told the king I would not agree to an immediate wedding. You will remain betrothed until you are seventeen.”

“Oh,” she said, some of the tension from her shoulders draining away. “Why?”

“Because I thought learning some patience might benefit His Grace,” her father said, his face suddenly irritated. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “You are so young,” he said, opening his eyes. The irritation was gone, and a somber expression had replaced it. “And it is no easy thing to wed a stranger.” 

She did not know what to say to that, so she nodded mutely.

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I suspect the coming war will upset most of these schemes.” Father brought his hands up to scrub his face. “I have done my best to spare you the details, but you must understand that if the Wall should fall, none of this will mean anything.” 

A cold shiver ran down her spine; she had heard her share of Old Nan’s stories. “Do you think it may come to that?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Only the gods know.” He furrowed his brow and looked at her with troubled eyes. “We Starks belong in the North. But there is so much danger there now, and I don’t know how best to protect you.”

“I’m sure the king will protect me,” she said, reaching out to touch her father’s hand.

Father stared down at her fingers. “I fear it will be you protecting him.”

Sansa frowned. “From the Tyrells?”

“From himself,” Father said grimly. He looked at her for a silent moment, clearly thinking something through. “You must not let him come to the Wall, Sansa.”

She blinked. _Why would he risk going there?_ A dull throbbing started up at her temples.

“Promise me,” her father said. “If Stannis decides to go north, do your best to stop him. Or in the very least delay him as long as you can. I dare not explain why. You must trust me.”

“I -” She opened and closed her mouth helplessly.

“Promise me,” he said, clutching both her hands in his.

“Very well,” she said, doing her best to ignore her oncoming headache. “I promise.”

Father’s shoulders sagged, and closed his eyes. “Thank you.” He rose to his feet, tugging her up from her own seat as he did, and embraced her tightly. “Thank you.”

She returned the embrace fiercely, both glad of the comfort it brought, and frightened by the idea that her father might need it more than she did.

***

The days that followed the announcement of Sansa’s betrothal to the king, Princess Shireen’s betrothal to Lord Lannister, and Lady Margaery’s betrothal to Robb, were strange and lonely. Mother and Father were kind to her, but they were constantly meeting with other lords and ladies, and did not have much time to spare. Robb was never around anymore, and seemed to have attached himself to Lady Margaery by the hip. Everyone treated her differently. Even Jeyne, who had been with her through everything that had happened with Joffrey, kept looking at her with a mixed expression of awe and sympathy that Sansa misliked. If it had not been for Grey Wind, she wasn’t sure how she would have made it through. He had taken to following her more than he followed Robb, and his presence was a powerful source of comfort and strength to her. More often than not, the other courtiers would avoid lingering near her if he was there, which was an added benefit.

But Margaery no longer appeared to fear her brother’s wolf.

“You’re praying?” Lady Margaery asked, having found Sansa in the royal sept, Grey Wind standing guard behind her. 

Sansa had made it her habit to go every day after breaking her fast. Being there among the beautiful statues in the candlelight was a comfort, and there was usually no one present to stare at her. The few who passed through tended to keep to themselves. “To the Maiden,” she said, bowing her head, “and the Mother.”

Margaery nodded and walked over to kneel down beside her. She stroked Grey Wind’s fur as she passed him by, and he cocked his head at her. “I suppose I am here to pray, too.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No.” Margaery touched her hand lightly. “I thought we might talk.”

Sansa waited. The statue of the Maiden in the royal sept was particularly beautiful. _A year and a month,_ she thought, gazing at the Maiden’s innocent face. _And then I will no longer be under your protection._

“We will be sisters,” Margaery said at length. “I knew we would be.”

“But it’s not happening the way you expected?” Sansa looked at the statue of the Mother, her stomach clenching in on itself. _How many years until I am a mother? Two?_ She closed her eyes briefly, a dizzy sensation overtaking her.

“No,” Margaery admitted, looking down for a moment. When she looked up there was a tight smile on her lips. “I know I should be sorry I shan’t be queen. My family is.” She glanced briefly at the statue of the Father. His face was stern. “But your brother is young and handsome, and he smiles at me when I speak to him.”

 _He does more than smile._ “And your brother? Is he sorry that he will not wed the princess?”

Willas had returned to Highgarden the day after the royal betrothals had been announced. He had not sought her out to say good-bye before he left. She had been relieved. Everything would be easier without him at court to remind her of what she would never have.

“The princess?” Margaery repeated, her face going very still. “Who said anything about Willas marrying the princess? She is to wed Lord Lannister.” She clasped one of Sansa’s hands with both of hers. “You know I believed we would be sisters through Willas,” she said earnestly. “He was heartbroken when he heard you were to marry the king.”

Sansa ached with the desire to believe her, but she made herself look away from Margaery’s wide-eyed gaze. “Please stop,” she said quietly. “I know there was never an official offer.”

Slowly, Margaery released Sansa’s hand. “He really did like you,” she said in a serious voice. “And he likes Robb. I believe he’s happy for me.” A small, sincere smile graced Margaery’s lips for a moment before fading away.

“And your grandmother? Your father?” Sansa asked, doing her best to keep her tone even. “Are they happy?”

Margaery sighed. “Father is happy enough. But grandmother never is.” She chewed on her lip for a moment, searching Sansa’s face. Sansa kept her expression blank. “I believe she is satisfied, however. For now.”

Sansa rose to her feet, dusting her gown off as she did. “That’s good. Please give her my warmest regards when you see her.”

“I’m sure you will see her yourself at the farewell feast.” Margaery got to her feet too, and faced Sansa head on.

“Of course,” Sansa said, inclining her head politely.

Slowly, Margaery turned to leave the sept. She stroked Grey Wind’s fur on her way out, too.

***

“Must you all leave so soon?” Sansa asked, not for the first time. But the farewell feast was almost upon them, and Mother had yet to change her answer.

“Sweetling,” her mother sighed, though her tone was not unkind. “Your lord father needs to return. He is to lead the army the king is sending north to the Wall. Robb will have to act as Lord of Winterfell while your father is away, and I would like to start helping Lady Margaery adjust to her new home as soon as possible. I had no one to help me when I first got to Winterfell. I don’t want that for her.”

 _But I am to be left alone to fend for myself?_ “I still don’t see why they can’t at least have the wedding ceremony here,” Sansa said, doing her best to keep the hurt from her tone.

“You know what your father’s bannermen are like. They’ll be more inclined to accept Margaery if she marries Robb in front of a heart tree. I don’t think they’ve ever truly forgiven me for being a southron lady with southron gods.”

Sansa nodded. There was a heavy pressure on her chest that made it hard to speak.

“We’ll be leaving most of the household with you,” her mother said, reaching out to touch Sansa’s cheek. “You won’t be alone.”

“Are the Pooles staying?” Sansa asked, hardly daring to hope.

“Vayon will have to come back with us,” her mother said apologetically. She paused and looked down while Sansa did her best not to show her dismay. But when Sansa’s mother looked back up there was an enigmatic smile on her lips that made her breath catch. “However, I believe Jeyne has been betrothed to a certain Devan Seaworth, the king’s squire. So she will be staying here with you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, the weight on her chest lifting. _When? When did this happen?_ “She never told me!”

“It was only decided yesterday. It hasn’t been announced.”

The prospect of enduring the next thirteen months still seemed daunting, and Sansa knew she would miss her family and Grey Wind more than anything, but having Jeyne with her would help. _If she would only stop looking at me as if I’ve decided to join the silent sisters._ Sansa managed a small smile. “The Seaworths are a lovely family. I’m happy for her,” she said.

Her mother looked pleased. “Good,” she said, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “Just wait and see. it will all be well. The Tyrells will return to Highgarden soon, so you need not worry about them. And you will be queen.” Pride filled her mother’s eyes, though there was sympathy and understanding in her smile. “We will come back for your wedding. Hopefully things will have settled down at the Wall by then.”

“Hopefully,” Sansa echoed, though she had little hope in her heart. Her father’s worries were too fresh in her memory.

“I will miss you, sweetling,” Mother said, her voice full of emotion. “If I could stay, I would. But I have your little brothers to think of, too. And I know you are capable of this. You were born for this role.”

Sansa blinked rapidly and nodded; her hurt feelings somehow soothed and aggravated at once.

“I know these past days have been difficult for you,” her mother continued, drawing her into an embrace. “But I hope you will speak to Jeyne soon. It isn’t like you to be this withdrawn. You will need every loyal friend you have in the months ahead.”

 _She’s the one who hasn't spoken to me,_ Sansa thought, frowning. But she leaned against her mother and tried not to think about it. She wished she could remain like this forever; wrapped securely in these warm, tender arms.

“Now, let us think of something more cheerful,” Mother said, pulling away. “Your new gowns should be ready in time for the feast. Isn’t that lovely?”

Sansa made herself smile and nod. Once she would have been thrilled to receive so many new gowns all at once. But that had been a different Sansa.

“You will look just _stunning_ in that cloth-of-gold one.”

 _Yes. But will the king even notice?_ He had not spoken to her in private since he’d escorted her to the Stark apartments days ago. They had barely been in the same room at the same time. And yet she would be expected to sit next to him all through the farewell feast. Him and the princess.

Princess Shireen had at least invited Sansa to join her and her ladies for the midday meal on the day of the feast. Why could he not have made a similar effort?

_Maybe he doesn't want me so very much after all._

***

“Can you spare a moment?” Jeyne had been waiting just outside the Stark apartments, an anxious look on her face. She fell into step with Sansa, walking beside her.

Sansa nodded. “I’m just on my way to the royal sept.” She wished Grey Wind was with her rather than a guard. She wanted to speak to Jeyne, but it had been so many days since they’d really talked that she didn’t know where to begin. And having a guard trailing after them - most likely listening to everything they said - was not helping matters.

“I know. Lady Stark told me you usually go at this hour.”

There was an awkward silence. They passed one servant, and then another.

“I heard you’ve been invited to see the princess again,” Jeyne eventually said.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Did - did Lady Stark tell you about my betrothal?”

“Yes she did. Congratulations,” Sansa said, some of her discomfort melting away. “Are you happy?”

Jeyne searched Sansa’s face guiltily. “Oh, I am. I’m so happy. But I do not want to make you feel worse by talking of it.”

Sansa frowned. “Worse?”

With a loud breath, Jeyne pulled Sansa to one side of the corridor and stopped walking. She cast the guard a pointed look, and he turned his back on them. “Are you very heartbroken that you will not marry Willas? You have looked so sad ever since the announcement,” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, blood rushing to her face. “I only spoke to him twice.” She glanced at the guard and straightened her back. “Anyway, I will be queen. I’m not sad at all.”

The familiar awed expression appeared on Jeyne’s face. “I thought for sure His Grace would give in and marry Lady Margaery. I never thought it would be you.” She shook her head slowly. “I should have known. You were supposed to marry Prince Joffrey, after all.”

Sansa glanced at the guard again. “Let’s go somewhere more private to talk.”

Jeyne’s eyes lit up. “I know a place.” She bit her lip, a blush staining her cheeks. “Devan showed me.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Did he?”

Jeyne glanced at the guard and giggled. “Yes. Follow me.”

The two ladies walked briskly to a secluded passageway, much like the one Robb had used for his secret meeting with Lady Margaery. Sansa instructed the guard to wait out of earshot.

“How long have you known you’re to marry the king?” Jeyne asked, her eyes wide.

“I’ve known for nearly two weeks,” Sansa confessed, keeping her voice very low just in case Lord Varys had his little spies about. “I wanted to tell you all about what his proposal was like, but Father did not want me to discuss it with anyone before he decided whether to accept.”

Jeyne covered her mouth with a hand, and her eyes were wide. “You were there when he proposed?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, pursing her lips. “It was not very romantic.”

A look of disappointment flitted across Jeyne’s face. “Well, I suppose kings have to be practical about these things.”

“I suppose,” Sansa agreed, sighing.

Jeyne bit her lip. “So… do you think he likes you?”

A small, humourless laugh escaped her before she could stop herself. “I have no idea.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “I thought for a while that there was a chance - he agreed to all of my father’s conditions - but he has not spoken to me at all since the announcement. I feel as if I may as well not exist.”

“He did choose you over Lady Margaery, though,” Jeyne pointed out, watching her face anxiously. “And every other highborn lady.”

Sansa did not have the energy to explain that Stannis would never have chosen Lady Margaery. Not if she had been the last lady in the Seven Kingdoms. “I know,” she said instead.

Before Jeyne had a chance to say anything else, the sound of a male voice nearby had them both freezing where they stood.

“Thank you for meeting me here, my lord.” It was a voice that Sansa immediately recognised as belonging to Alester Florent.

“Make it quick,” another male voice answered. Sansa was familiar with that one, too. It was Mace Tyrell.

“Where are they?” Jeyne whispered to Sansa, looking all around the abandoned passageway.

Sansa had already realised that there was a spy hole in the wall right where she and Jeyne were standing, and that the two men were on the other side of the wall. She pointed this out to Jeyne, and brought a finger to her lips.

“I thought I should bring your attention to a certain lady,” Alester said in an unctuous tone of voice, “as I’m sure you wish to find your heir a suitable wife.”

Mace snorted. “And what lady is that?”

“My granddaughter, Lady Talla Tarly, is a lovely, obliging girl,” Florent continued. “And she is no stranger to injuries. Her father was crippled in the war, and she has taken good care of him. Your son’s useless leg would not put her off.”

“My son’s leg is not useless,” Mace said hotly. “And where was this offer a year ago, eh?”

“Circumstances change,” Alester said, sniffing.

“But you have not,” Mace snarled. “Still as opportunistic as ever.”

“I will not be spoken to this way,” Alester said, his voice rising in volume. “Not by a Tyrell, and not by anyone!”

“No one is keeping you here.”

“My niece was queen,” Alester hissed. “And I am the master of coin. I have every right to be here.”

“Well, your niece is dead.”

“Yes. She is. And I noticed you were the first to arrive at court to offer your condolences, and push your daughter at a man in mourning.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” Mace said, though Sansa thought he sounded overly forceful.

“Of course you don’t,” Alester spat. “But you best be aware, I have my eye on you.” The sound of rapid footsteps followed those words, and Sansa surmised that Alester had left. She waited until she heard Mace leave before blowing out the breath she’d been holding.

Jeyne stared at her for a moment before placing her hand over her mouth and giggling. “I suppose Lord Tyrell will have more offers for Willas than he knows what to do with, now,” she said, still looking amused. But when she registered the look on Sansa’s face her mirth disappeared at once.

“We should go.”

Jeyne nodded, but didn’t move. “Are you sure you’re not heartbroken?” she asked in a soft voice.

Her heart gave a familiar twinge. “I liked Willas,” Sansa admitted, closing her eyes for a moment. _He was never mine._ She opened her eyes again, lifting her chin. “But I am betrothed to the king. He will be my husband, and I will be loyal to him.”

“Yes, of course,” Jeyne said quickly, “I never meant to imply - I just… you’ve been so sad.”

Sansa made herself smile. “Well, I have you to talk to now, and it is just as well. We are both to be married!” It was not true enthusiasm in her voice, but strangely she found that the pretense helped her feel a little better. “Do you know when your wedding is to take place? Will you have to wait as long as I? And what have you been doing sneaking around with Devan in places such as these?”

Blushing bright pink, Jeyne smiled in return and threw her arms around Sansa. “I’ve missed you.”

As she returned the embrace, Sansa’s smile became genuine. “I missed you, too.”


	7. And a Death

“Thank you for inviting me to your luncheon today, Your Grace.” Sansa smiled warmly at Shireen. “I enjoyed it very much.” It had been enjoyable. And very much like the breakfast Shireen had invited her to. The same ladies as before had been present, and though the topic of all the recent betrothals had taken up a little time, they had mostly discussed books again. Patchface had been there, but aside from one strange remark about the sea, he had thankfully not said much. 

Shireen ducked her head. “You’re welcome.”

They were standing close to a door in a small chamber adjacent to the Queen’s Ballroom, waiting for King Stannis to arrive. There were no windows, but torches lit the room well enough. The walls were covered in tapestries woven in muted colours, and Sansa thought they made the room feel intimate and warm despite the lack of proper furniture. There was another door on the other side of the room where Ser Allard Seaworth stood, doing a fairly believable impression of not listening to their conversation.

“Your gown is so beautiful,” Sansa went on, touching the black silks lightly. “And you look so well in it.”

The princess blushed. “Not as well as you look,” she said, gazing avidly at Sansa’s gown. “Mother never wore anything so fine.”

“I hope it is not inappropriate.” Sansa smoothed the fabric of her cloth-of-gold skirts nervously. “I’m sure your lady mother had very good judgment in these matters.” In truth, Sansa was sure of no such thing, but it seemed the courteous thing to say.

“I don’t know about that. She used to say vanity is a sin.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, nodding. Privately, she thought it was possible to be concerned with the way one presented oneself without becoming a preening peacock like Lord Alester Florent. 

“It was strange,” Shireen said quietly, looking at the floor, “choosing a gown by myself for the feast. Mother always used to help me.”

Sansa glanced at the door Ser Allard was guarding and hesitated. _The king may arrive at any moment._ Perhaps this was a conversation best left for later, but the melancholy in Shireen’s voice was compelling her to take the plunge now. “I could help you with those sorts of things,” she began, heat rising to her face. “Only - only if you should like me to. But I hope you know that I will never presume to take your lady mother’s place in your heart,” she finished in a rush.

“Oh,” Shireen said, blinking. “Thank you.”

Sansa bit her lip. “I hope we will be friends.”

“That is my hope, too,” Shireen said, shooting Sansa a small smile.

Relief and joy filled her breast, but she was hardly able to enjoy it before Ser Allard’s door opened, and Stannis strode through, the royal steward and Ser Barristan on his heels. 

The king was dressed in his usual way, though his boots had clearly been freshly polished. He stopped short almost as soon as he entered the room, his eyes sweeping over her before locking onto her face.

She held her breath, mentally going over everything she and her mother had done to make her as beautiful as possible for the evening. This feast was not a betrothal feast, as Stannis had refused to have one, but it was the first event where she would appear to the court as his betrothed, so Mother had decided they should treat it as one. That - according to her mother - meant dressing the part. She had given Sansa her best gold necklace, and a golden hairnet decorated with onyx gems that twinkled in her hair like little pieces of midnight. She had instructed the maids to lace Sansa into the cloth-of-gold dress as tightly as they could, showing off her narrow waist. Black lace had been used for the trim, and a panel of the fine lace in a strategic place gave the front of the gown the illusion of prim modesty. But if one stood quite close, it was possible to steal an enticing glimpse of her bosom. “Not too much,” Mother had said, “His Grace is not easily swayed by a woman’s bosom. The gods know he’d be marrying Lady Margaery otherwise.” Still holding her breath, Sansa searched the king’s face. _Will he say anything?_

The muscles of his jaw flexed, and his mouth twitched. He opened his mouth, almost as if he meant to speak to her, but in the end he just exhaled loudly and turned to the steward. “Announce us.”

Sansa began to breathe again, disappointment filling her stomach like broken glass.

The royal steward opened the door to the Queen’s Ballroom and began listing all the king’s titles in a loud voice. Very soon Stannis would have to walk through the door, and Sansa had no idea whether she and Shireen were supposed to follow him, or if he meant to escort them. Or perhaps he would escort one of them, and the other would follow?

She glanced at Shireen, hoping for some insight. But Shireen just stood there, looking nervous and lost. _This is the first time she has been to a court event since her mother’s death._ Her heart beating in a quick, anxious rhythm, she looked at Stannis instead, hoping her expression would prompt him to give them some instructions. But he just stared back at her, piercing, judging. She swallowed and hoped she did not look as uncertain as she felt. “Your Grace?” she said, keeping her tone soft. “Shall we enter after you, or are you to escort one of us?”

The question seemed to startle him. His eyes went to Shireen, and it was almost as if he was surprised to find that she was present. He frowned and blinked, and Sansa thought he looked rather flushed. 

The steward was announcing the princess now, and soon he would say Sansa’s name. She kept her shoulders back and her feet still despite the ever-quickening beat of her heart, and raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a polite, inquiring way.

“I have two arms,” the king said, clearing his throat.

Just in time, he offered them. Sansa took his right, Shireen his left, and they all walked forward into the ballroom. They entered in near total silence. Every place at the long trestle tables seemed occupied, and the torches shone so brightly, flames dancing in the mirrors behind each sconce, that Sansa could see every staring face in the room with perfect clarity. She could even see the faces of the musicians in the gallery above, though all of their instruments were silent.

The guests of honour, the Tyrells and the Starks, were sitting nearest the high table, and Sansa looked toward them, trying to find Mother, Father, Robb, and Jeyne. Their faces were a welcome oasis in the midst of all the curious stares, and Sansa did her best to focus on them, and only them, as the king led her and the princess through the room. Father looked as somber as always, but there was a proud look in his eyes that made Sansa feel much taller. Mother was smiling, her eyes shining in the torch light. Robb winked at her in a very silly way, making her want to roll her eyes at him, and Jeyne was beaming so excitedly next to Devan Seaworth that Sansa could not help smiling in return.

Once they reached the high table, Stannis helped both Shireen and Sansa to their seats. His movements were stiff and stilted however, and Sansa was surprised when he seemed to forget to let go of her hand at the proper moment. She was forced to perform a subtle nudge. It was nothing anyone looking at them would have noticed, she was sure, but it seemed strange to her. _He must have had years of practise with Queen Selyse?_

When Stannis had taken his seat, the musicians began to play again, and soon the ballroom was filled with music and chatter. The servants were already bringing the first course, and no cup was empty. Only the three people at the high table remained quiet. With Stannis sitting between her and Shireen like a brick wall, Sansa didn’t dare continue her conversation with the princess.

“How have you been faring, Your Grace?” she ventured once a servant had placed a salad of sweetgrass, spinach, and pomegranate seeds in front of her. It was easier to speak now that she had something with which to occupy her hands.

“Well enough,” Stannis said. He glanced at her for the briefest of moments before staring down at his plate and spearing his salad with a fork as if it meant him harm.

Sansa gave him a chance to ask her something in return, but when no such question seemed forthcoming, she did her best to smile. “I’m sure you’ve been very busy.”

He stopped murdering his sweetgrass for a moment. “A king should not be idle,” he said, glaring at his plate.

Was it a rebuke? It sounded like one. She looked down at her plate too, furrowing her brow. For a while she said nothing, and focused on eating her food. Her wine was sweet and orange-scented, and she drank more than she usually did. By the time the third course arrived - snails in honey-butter and garlic - she could no longer bear the silence.

“I look forward to learning what my duties will be as queen,” she began, striving for an optimistic tone. “A queen should not be idle either, I’m sure.”

“A queen’s duty is to produce heirs,” Stannis said, irritated. He opened his mouth as if to say more, looked at her, and froze. His mouth clicked shut, and his expression turned... odd. He reached for his cup and drank.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said, smiling brightly even as she pushed intrusive thoughts about bedchambers from her mind. “And though I do know how to run a household, I meant that I am eager to find out how running a castle such as this one - as its queen - will be different.”

Stannis grunted, but did not look at her. He was sitting stiff as a board, not eating.

Keeping her tone light, she changed the subject. “Princess Shireen and I had a lovely luncheon today, did she tell you?”

Shireen, who had been frowning at her snails, looked up at the sound of her name, her eyes wide and startled. Stannis looked at Sansa and then at his daughter. “No,” he said.

Sansa waited to give him a chance to continue the conversation, but to no avail. She drank deeply from her cup. “Her Grace was telling me about a book she’s lately been reading, about the Dothraki people.”

“Savages,” Stannis muttered.

“Their customs are very different from ours,” Shireen submitted shyly, glancing at her father.

Sansa nodded eagerly, glad that her attempt to draw Shireen into the conversation had worked. “Did you not say that they consider a wedding without several deaths an ill omen?” 

Shireen glanced nervously at her father again, but her eyes were coming alive. “I’m not sure it’s considered an ill omen, but they’d think it frightfully dull.”

“And they eat horses?” Sansa asked, trying to remember all the things Shireen had told her.

“Yes,” Shireen nodded, “my book said they prefer horseflesh above all things, and that they believe eating it imbues them with the strength of the animal.”

“I wonder what it tastes like,” Sansa said, smiling at a servant who just then came to take her half-finished plate of snails away. He replaced it with a plate of stuffed goose, drizzled liberally with plum sauce.

“Horse tastes much like aurochs,” Stannis said, glancing at her and then resolutely back at his own goose. “Though it is leaner.”

Sansa almost asked him when he’d eaten horse, but stopped herself short. _Probably during the siege._ “Oh,” she said instead, uncertain how to proceed.

They all fell silent. Sansa drank more wine.

Once ten courses had been served - with two more failed attempts at conversation where Sansa and Shireen mostly did all the speaking - the desserts started coming. The musicians in the gallery began to play jaunty dance tunes, fools and singers appeared to entertain the people, and many courtiers got up from their seats to mingle and dance. Jeyne approached the high table with a hopeful expression on her face, and Sansa looked at the king, trying to think of the politest way to ask if he’d mind her getting up.

“Go,” he said with a curt nod, apparently having read her mind.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” _And thank the gods._

Jeyne’s hopeful expression gave way to a bright smile as Sansa approached her, and she greeted her with a high-pitched squeal. “You look so beautiful! I have never seen such a gown!”

“Hush, you look just as well as I do,” Sansa said, smiling back. Jeyne wore flowing, sea green silks that Sansa had not seen her in before.

Jeyne insisted on exclaiming over her gown, her jewels, and her hair a little more, and then Sansa was dragged over to meet Devan. 

“Lady Sansa,” he said, managing to stumble over the two words. He blushed and looked at Jeyne a little helplessly. Jeyne must have sent him an encouraging look, for he looked at Sansa again and gave a small bow. “Your servant.”

She smiled at him. “Please allow me to congratulate you,” she said, glancing at Jeyne. “And wish you both good fortune.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, reaching for Jeyne’s hand and practically glowing when she offered it readily. With her hand in his, he seemed to grow several inches taller. “And I offer you my best wishes for yourself and His Grace.”

She inclined her head. “You are his squire, are you not?”

“Yes,” Devan seemed to relax at the question. “But he has promised me my knighthood once I turn sixteen, as I am to marry.” Jeyne smiled so widely at this that Sansa thought her face might split in two.

“You must be very skilled,” Sansa said, admiringly. _Skilled, and well liked by the king._ It was no common occurrence to earn one's spurs at so young an age.

“He is,” Jeyne said happily. “You should see him on the training field!”

“I train every morning with King Stannis,” Devan said proudly.

Sansa knew the hours the king kept, and felt sorry for Devan, though he did not seem to feel sorry for himself. “Perhaps I will come and see you both one day,” she said.

“I’m sure His Grace would like that.” He looked adoringly at Jeyne. “I always do my best work when Jeyne comes to watch me.”

“Do you really think he would?” Sansa said, trying to keep her tone mild and curious, rather than deeply sceptical.

Devan blushed. “Well, it’s hard to tell with him,” he said apologetically. He fell silent for a moment. “But I know he was pleased when your father agreed to the match.”

“How do you know?” Jeyne asked, fascinated.

Still blushing, Devan cleared his throat. “I’m sure any man would be pleased by such a match,” he bowed his head at Sansa. As he raised his head again, his eyes darted to the sides, and when he spoke, it was in a lowered voice. “But I’m certain the king was pleased because the foul mood he’d been in up until then finally lifted.” He shot Sansa a quick smile. “Now you must forgive me, I think my brother Maric wants a word.”

Devan kissed Jeyne’s hand, and left.

Jeyne turned to look at Sansa, her expression eager and anxious. “What do you think?”

 _The king was in a foul mood until father agreed to the match?_ “I like him very much,” Sansa said, watching as Devan crossed the room to greet two of his older brothers. She wondered whether Devan might not have interpreted things a little generously. _His mood probably lifted because he got his way._ Likely it had nothing to do with her.

“I’m so glad,” Jeyne said, her eyes shining. “He is sweet, and kind, and ever so gallant.”

Sansa’s heart expanded, but a heavy feeling in her stomach accompanied the joy. “I would like anyone who could make you smile like that,” she said.

They embraced briefly. When they parted, still smiling at one another, Jeyne’s gaze fell on something behind Sansa’s back, and she made an excited sound. “Look at that pie!”

The enormous pigeon pie had arrived. The Tyrells had insisted on having one; nothing less would do to bid their Lady Margaery farewell.

She looked at Margaery, Robb, and all of Margaery’s cousins as they crowded around the pie. They were a cheerful, rowdy group, and everyone was smiling or laughing. With a bittersweet pang, Sansa thought of how much she had enjoyed the first days of this visit to King’s Landing. She turned to look towards the high table, where her betrothed sat with a scowl on his face. Shireen still sat on his other side, a look of longing in her eyes as she observed the pigeon pie’s crust come apart, and the birds take flight.

“I shall miss Lady Margaery,” Sansa said. And though her feelings were mixed when it came to her brother’s betrothed, it did not feel like a lie.

“She’s not gone yet,” Jeyne said bracingly, putting an arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “Let’s go join her and the others and see if we can’t get a piece of pie to eat!”

Sansa hesitated. Things had been different between herself and Margaery since their conversation in the sept. She had not found herself invited to any exciting excursions, and Margaery no longer seemed to find it necessary to seek her out to speak to her privately. _She will have been busy preparing for the journey to Winterfell._ Her stomach squirmed, and she closed her eyes. _I must not think of Winterfell._

“Are you coming?” Jeyne asked.

She nodded and followed Jeyne towards Margaery’s group, hoping that she would find a warm welcome.

“Sansa! Jeyne!” Margaery exclaimed upon their arrival. “Have you had any pie?”

“I’ll get you each a piece,” Robb proclaimed, kissing Sansa’s cheek in greeting. “You look beautiful,” he said less loudly, smiling at her.

Jeyne and Sansa both accepted a slice of pie from Robb, and it was soon agreed that it was just about the best ever made. But soon the conversation drifted to other topics. Margaery was determined that she should wear a silk wedding gown, but was wondering whether it would be possible to add fur trims, as the ceremony would take place out of doors. Sansa tried to send Robb a silent signal to talk Margaery out of it, but he just smiled and shook his head. _She might wear silk smallclothes, perhaps. But she’ll need something warmer for her gown. A fur trim will not do much to keep her warm._

The carefree spirit of the group was infectious, and she soon began to enjoy herself, forgetting about her cares as she joined the others in teasing Margaery about the frequent, besotted glances Robb shot her way. Sansa could tell that he was doing it on purpose to entertain the girls, and sent him a fond smile. He winked at her, and then looked at Margaery again, placing his hands over his heart like a mummer in a show.

“He cannot keep his eyes off you,” Elinor said to Margaery, giggling.

“Nor his hands,” another cousin contributed, causing the whole group to shriek.

“I’m sure we are no different than any other couple, newly betrothed,” Margaery said, her voice modest, but her eyes bright with amusement.

Unable to help herself, Sansa looked toward the high table where Stannis was seated. He was scowling at Patchface, who had appeared and seemed to be trying to amuse the princess.

“How will you bear the wait until the wedding night?” someone asked Margaery, inspiring a fresh bout of giggles.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage…”

A pair of singers burst into a bawdy song at that, distracting the entire party.

Sansa watched as Stannis continued to sit in silence, scowling at all and sundry, and tried to imagine what it would be like if he were to behave with her as Robb did with Margaery. The thought was too disconcerting however, so she shook her head and forced her gaze over to the seat next to him. Princess Shireen was sitting quietly, ignoring Patchface and observing the singers that were keeping Margaery’s friends entertained instead.

Sansa tried to enjoy the song for a little while, but her eyes kept drifting back towards the lonely princess. Lady Marissa, Lady Alynna, and Lady Carellen were present at the feast, but they had been seated with their own families, and were not keeping Shireen company. She only had her father with her. Her father and Patchface.

The singers finished their song, and Sansa drifted over to Jeyne. “Should we go and ask her to join us?” she said when they had all finished applauding the singers. “She looks so lonely.”

Jeyne furrowed her brow. “Who does?”

“Princess Shireen.”

“Oh. I suppose we could.” Jeyne did not look entirely enthused by the idea. “Though she’s terribly plain.”

Sansa reminded herself that despite their long stay on Dragonstone, Jeyne had never spent any length of time with Shireen and did not know her. “She’s the _princess._ ”

“I know! And princesses are always beautiful in songs,” Jeyne said. “Her Grace is covered in those awful scars. And her ears are bigger than my head.”

“She can’t help her scars, Jeyne. And she’s nice.”

Jeyne sighed. “All right, let’s go invite her to accompany us. I’m sure Devan and his brothers will want to dance with us all. They don’t mind that she’s plain.”

The king and the princess had plates of pie in front of them, though Stannis did not seem remotely interested in eating his piece. Shireen was tasting hers with a look of pleasure on her face.

Sansa and Jeyne curtseyed when they reached the table. “Enjoying the pie, Your Grace?” Sansa asked, directing the question at Stannis. It was impolite to talk to the princess before first acknowledging the king.

“Not particularly,” Stannis said flatly. “Who knows what the pigeons were doing inside it before they were let out. No doubt more of what they’re doing now.” He glared at the white splatters that was now decorating the Queen’s Ballroom here and there.

Sansa forced herself to keep smiling. She turned to address Shireen. “And you, Your Grace? Are you enjoying the pie?”

Shireen gave Sansa a wide-eyed look. “I - yes. It’s lovely.”

“When you’ve finished, would you like to come with me and Lady Jeyne?”

Shireen looked at her father. He nodded, though his expression was still sour. Shireen smiled hopefully at Sansa. “I would, yes.”

“You remember Lady Jeyne, don’t you, Your Grace?” Sansa asked once Shireen had joined them and they were out of the king’s hearing range. Patchface was following them, walking sideways, but he did not appear to be listening. He was making his bells jingle and jangle, occasionally humming under his breath.

“Yes, I think so,” the princess said, looking seriously at Jeyne.

“Lovely to see you again, Your Grace,” Jeyne said, bobbing a quick curtsey. “Now let’s go see what Lady Margaery and the others are doing. I think they’ve discovered a new fool! Look!” With that, Jeyne rushed off.

“Do you think I ought to go?” Shireen asked Sansa. “Father doesn’t approve of Lady Margaery and her cousins.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Sansa said, smiling reassuringly. “But we can ask Lady Marissa, Lady Alynna, and Lady Carellen to join us if that will make you more comfortable.”

Shireen nodded eagerly, and after that the evening was easy. Margaery and her cousins were all kind to Shireen and her ladies, and were quick to let Shireen in on their jokes, offer her sweets and wine, and ask her which songs she wanted to hear. No one said a word about scars or big ears. They all even pretended to laugh when Patchface began speaking in those strange rhymes of his.

 _If she were not the crown princess, would they be so kind?_ Sansa wondered. She thought of Sandor Clegane and his scars, and how he had been treated by the court. _The Hound,_ they had all called him.

She stopped thinking about it when Devan appeared with Matthos and Maric in tow, and Margaery’s cousins started flirting so outrageously with them that their faces turned bright red. Still, they danced with them all just as Jeyne had predicted. Other young men approached them in turn, and for a while there was no room to breathe or think; there was just the joy of the rhythmic steps and the swelling music.

Eventually, when her feet began to ache. Maric declined to take the bait when she tried to get him to dance with her again, so she sat down at one of the trestle tables, needing a moment to rest. As she sat there looking at the dancers, and thinking about Maric’s flustered excuses, she realised that none of the men had danced more than one dance with her. None except Robb.

_Why?_

“You look troubled, dear girl,” said a voice nearby.

Sansa looked up to see Lady Olenna Tyrell sitting across the way. “My lady,” she said politely. “I hope you are well.”

Olenna waved her courtesies away with an air of impatience. “What ails you, child?”

Blushing, Sansa opened her mouth and closed it. “It’s nothing.”

“Allow me a guess,” Olenna said, an amused gleam in her eyes. “Your favourite has not asked you to dance?”

 _Is this some trap?_ Sansa looked down at her hands. “I’m told the king rarely dances.”

The old lady laughed. “Hush, I know he is not your favourite. His Dour Grace has never been anyone’s favourite and likely never will be.” She chortled some more. “But do not fret if your favourite is ignoring you. It will not be due to any lack of charm on your part.”

“What do you mean, my lady?” She kept her tone and her face carefully blank.

“If any young man is resisting you, it will be because he is afraid of the king.” Olenna nodded to herself in a satisfied way.

“The king?” Sansa glanced at Stannis, but he did not seem to be so much as looking her way. Lord Davos had joined him at the high table, and they seemed deep in conversation.

“Yes, dear girl,” Olenna said impatiently. “No man here would wish to awaken his ire by daring to seem too interested in you.”

“His Grace wouldn’t get angry about a few dances,” Sansa said, shaking her head. She looked at him again. _Would he?_

“Of course he would,” she snapped. But the irritation was gone in a moment. “You’re to be his, and he’s known to guard his rightful possessions jealously.” A strange smile flitted across her lips as she spoke, but was quickly replaced by a sympathetic expression.

“He’s not even looking at me.”

“Not now, no,” Olenna agreed. “But you’re not dancing with anyone now.” The strange smile was back. _The cat who got the cream._ “You shall have to grow eyes on the back of your head, child. The look on his face when you were dancing with that handsome, blond knight was a sight,” she cackled.

“But Ser Gordon is married,” Sansa said, frowning.

“A married man, a married fool, or a widowed man, a clever fool, a clever little queen...” Patchface said, having appeared from nowhere. He was jumping from side to side, jangling his bells loudly in Lady Olenna’s face.

Olenna gave the fool a sharp look, her face paling. But then she gave a tight smile. “And Ser Jaime Lannister was a knight of the Kingsguard. King Stannis has already executed one unfaithful queen. You’d do well to remember that. Excuse me,” she said, and rose from her seat after signaling a pair of burly guards that had been hovering close by to help her. 

Sansa saw her go over to Lord Tyrell and say something to him, but her mind was elsewhere. She looked at the king, wondering if what Olenna had said was true. _Why would she try to help me?_

As if he’d felt her looking, the king suddenly met her eyes. His brow was heavy, and his gaze sharp. For a searing moment, Sansa felt as if her skin had been set on fire. Her heart hammering, she looked away.

“Are you well?” Jeyne asked, approaching with Devan’s hand clasped in hers.

“I am,” Sansa said, though her voice sounded oddly high and nervous. “Truly.” She smiled. Or perhaps she grimaced. She wasn’t sure. “I’m just going to go and get a cup of wine.”

The wine did not do much to clear her head. _The king promised not to harm me,_ she reminded herself. _He would not execute me in a fit of jealousy._ The ballroom now seemed to be spinning more than the dancers. _He probably isn’t even jealous. Lady Olenna made it all up._ Sansa didn’t understand; she had been drinking wine all through dinner, and it had not affected her thus then. _I have to sit down again._ But she did not want to risk another conversation like that one she’d just had with Lady Olenna. With her heart in her throat, Sansa headed unsteadily for her seat at the high table. Lord Davos was just leaving when she reached it. 

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. “How stunning you look.” When Davos smiled, his eyes smiled. “My king, you are a lucky man,” he added, glancing at Stannis. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Sansa thought the king’s colour rose.

She ducked her head, doing her best not to sway where she stood. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Allow me,” he offered, helping her to the seat he had just vacated. Once she was settled, he clapped the king on the shoulder. “You will consider what I said?” he said, directing his words at Stannis.

Stannis glanced quickly at Sansa and pressed his lips together, shooting Davos an irritated look. He nodded. “Go find your wife.”

His eyes still smiling, Davos left.

“Your Grace,” she said in greeting, trying to sound calm and as if she weren’t curious at all about what Davos wanted Stannis to consider. She watched as Lord Davos walked further and further away, and wished he would come back.

“My lady,” he muttered. His gaze was lingering on the Hand’s retreating figure, too.

There was an awkward pause, and Sansa concentrated on making the room stop moving. Sitting had helped, but being so near her betrothed was unnerving.

“You look pale,” Stannis said at length, frowning at her.

“I think I danced a little too much,” Sansa said, certain that Stannis would not approve if she told him the wine had addled her senses.

“Yes.”

She blinked, Lady Olenna’s words still fresh in her mind. “Would you prefer it if I danced less, Your Grace?” She looked at him closely, searching for any sign of possessiveness or jealousy.

His scowl deepened, and his eyes revealed a measure of irritation. “You may do as you please within reason. Only make certain you do not embarrass yourself or me.”

Her stomach shrank. “I would not want to displease you,” she whispered, hardly daring to meet his eyes now. “Certainly not embarrass you.”

Stannis shifted in his chair. “Good.”

“Would it please you if I were to dance with you first in the future?” she asked, her tongue strangely loose.

He went very still and stared at her. The scowl was gone, and he no longer appeared irritated. 

“I mean - if you are inclined to dance. I would not have you think that I prefer anyone else over you.” The thought of Willas intruded, along with a swirling mixture of the different decisions she could have made, but she pushed it all away. _It is done._

He cleared his throat and looked away from her. “If I ever wish to dance with you, I will ask.”

Her face and her neck felt hot. She averted her eyes. _Why must he make this so difficult?_ Forcing herself to go on as if Stannis had said something nice, she looked up again. “I would be flattered if you were to ask, Your Grace.” It was true. She’d mostly be stunned speechless, but certainly she’d be flattered if a man who was known to dance but rarely were to stand up with her. Her heart pounded, and she watched him more closely than ever for his reaction.

Stannis frowned and blinked a few times, clearly disbelieving her, but his expression was not like it had ever been when she had observed him with Margaery. There was confusion and distrust, but no derision. She breathed a little easier.

“Drink some water,” he eventually said, nodding at the servant who had been pouring his drinks that evening. “You’ve had enough wine.” The servant approached and poured water into her cup from his silver pitcher.

It had been two years since anyone had commented on the amount of wine she chose to drink, but the idea of water sounded so good that she could not muster the energy to be offended. Without a word she simply did as he bid. The first mouthful of cool, refreshing water had her closing her eyes and emitting a small hum of pleasure. How could she not have noticed how parched she had become after all that dancing? She took another, larger sip, relishing its lemon flavour. She opened her eyes and sent Stannis a grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He grunted, only meeting her eyes for a moment before becoming very interested in something across the room.

The silence that followed as she sipped her water was not as awkward as some of the silences she had endured at dinner. It was almost peaceful, sitting quietly and observing the merriment from afar. Everything stopped spinning, and she felt much better. 

“The princess looks happy,” Sansa said, though she was almost reluctant to break the spell she and the king seemed to be under. Shireen was dancing with Devan, laughing as he spun her around energetically.

Stannis looked at Shireen for a long moment, and then at her. There was less tension in the way he held himself. “Yes,” he said. He searched her face, a small crease between his eyebrows.

“Will you summon Lord Lannister to court now that he and Shireen are betrothed?” she asked, recalling that the ladies had all been wondering about it at Shireen’s luncheon.

“Perhaps when they’re older,” Stannis said, tensing up again.

She nodded. “I’m sure they’ll get along,” she said softly, almost speaking more to herself than the king. “Tommen is so sweet.”

Stannis said nothing to that, though he was still looking at her with that crease between his eyebrows.

Sansa found herself wanting to say something else - something to make him relax again - but she had not thought of anything when Robb turned up, insisting on a third dance.

“Go,” Stannis said when she looked at him for permission.

As Robb led her away, a hot, prickly sensation on the back of her neck made her glance back over her shoulder at the king. He was staring at her, his eyes focused and intent. When he noticed her looking back, he immediately looked away.

For the rest of the night that hot sensation on her neck lingered, and it made it hard to focus on anything except what the king might be thinking.

He didn’t ask her to dance.

***

Saying good-bye to Mother, Father, and Robb was much harder than Sansa had imagined it would be. After all, she knew she would see them again for her wedding. But the wedding still seemed a long way away, and Father was going to the Wall to fight wildlings and monsters.

“Don’t forget your promise,” he said the night before he left. “And don’t forget how much we love you.” He hugged her so fiercely that Sansa was scarcely able to breathe.

Mother hugged her too, and gave her a few parting words of advice. “Always remember,” said as she pulled away, “courtesy is a lady’s armour, but good information is a shield as well.” She searched Sansa’s face, her eyes serious. “As queen it will be your responsibility to know everything that goes on in court. And I’m afraid that with King Stannis as your husband it will fall to you to be charming and diplomatic enough for the both of you.” There was a tense pause. “Do not underestimate your servants. They will be your eyes and your ears, but don’t trust everything they tell you. Trust only your most loyal friends. You must always be on your guard.”

Sansa nodded, her mouth drying out. Her mother had been saying all of this and more besides for days, but hearing so much of it at once was a little overwhelming.

“We will be together again before you know it,” Mother continued, her voice full of emotion. “Use this time wisely. Get to know the king and the princess and earn their trust. They will be your new family.”

Robb kissed both of her cheeks and pulled her to his chest much like Father had.

“When did you grow so tall?” he murmured.

“I’ve been this tall since I was ten and four,” Sansa said, knowing full well that Robb wasn’t really interested in discussing her height.

“Have you? You’ve become such a beautiful lady, sweet sister,” Robb said, smiling fondly. “You will be the loveliest queen Westeros has ever seen.”

“And you and Lady Margaery will look so beautiful on your wedding day that you will make all the northern lords cry.”

Robb laughed. “I will look handsome, true enough, but I fear that if Margaery has her way with that silk gown of hers, I shall be marrying a frozen corpse.”

“Don’t you dare let her wear such a thing,” Sansa said, placing her hands on her hips. “She’ll catch ill.”

Shaking his head and throwing his hands up in surrender, Robb grinned. “Very well, I will see what I can do. But frozen corpse or no, I don’t think there will be too much weeping. Lord Bolton never cries, I’m sure.”

“You will look so beautiful and so in love that even Lord Bolton will weep like a babe in arms,” Sansa insisted, struggling to keep her face still. “Which is why I am devastated that I won’t be there to see it!”

Robb burst into laughter again, and Sansa noticed her parents smiling, too.

“Ned, we have to go,” Mother said after a moment, placing a hand on Father’s shoulder. The smiles faded away.

“Promise me you’ll write,” Sansa said, looking at the three of them in turn. “And tell Arya, Bran, and Rickon how much I miss them.”

“Of course.” Mother kissed her forehead.

Finally, Sansa hugged Grey Wind, and did not protest as she usually did when he licked her face over-much. “Take good care of them,” she whispered, clinging to his soft fur for as long as she could.

With eyes burning with the promise of tears, and a sizable lump in her throat, Sansa looked at her family one last time, and prayed for a safe journey.

As she returned to her chambers, wondering whether she could allow herself a little time to hide away in bed and cry, or whether she should seek Jeyne out for comfort, Sansa did not pay very much attention to her surroundings. It therefore came as that much more of a shock when she nearly tripped over something large in her path.

It jangled.

Sansa stifled a scream and looked wildly behind her for her guard. “Ser,” she whimpered, the tears she had been keeping at bay bursting forth all at once. “Help.”

The guard rushed forth and grabbed her, pulling her away from the body on the floor. “Don’t look at it, my lady.”

But it was too late. She had already seen Patchface.

Instead of red and green motley, there was purple. His eyes were wide open and so blood-shot that there was hardly any white. 

_Horrible._

“His face,” she said, trembling in her guard’s arms. “Oh, gods… his face…”


	8. The Maidenvault

Sansa was looking for Arya. Again. It was time for their lessons with Septa Mordane, and of course she had vanished into the depths of this horrible castle.

“Arya?” Sansa called out hopelessly. “Please come out.”

Listening for an answer, Sansa kept walking. The corridor she was in was chilly and empty of all furniture, tapestries, or other such decorations. Torches lit her way, but they were few and far apart, and cast eerie shadows on the stone walls. Occasionally the wind outside whistled, creating a cold draft. 

“Arya?” she tried again, clutching at her cloak.

She spotted a door, and walked a little faster, wondering whether Arya might be behind it. As she neared it, she heard a sound, and slowed to a stop, listening harder.

It wasn’t Arya. Instead, Sansa was sure she could hear two male voices. She took a few more steps, as quietly as she could, and saw that the door was ajar. The men were probably standing just beyond it, and they seemed to be very amused. Sansa hesitated. _Should I ask them whether they’ve seen Arya?_

“I hope I get to watch,” the first voice said, deep and a little raspy. He chuckled. “He’s bound to squeal like a pig.”

“You don’t know if it will even happen, Storm. We must win the battle first.”

“The battle is as good as won,” the man called Storm responded. “And once we have taken King’s Landing, the king swore he’d have the pig executed for his crimes.”

“Oh yes. The terrible crime of accepting gold.”

“Slynt is corrupt, and you know it.”

“Men like him always are.”

There was a pause. Sansa held her breath and tried not to think about Janos Slynt being executed. She had not liked him very much, but the idea of an execution was horrible to her.

“I want to believe things will be different when King Stannis takes the throne,” Storm said. “He may be harsh, but he’s fair. I’ve seen how he treats that smuggler of his.”

“Seaworth had the tips of his fingers chopped off,” the second man said.

Sansa knew that. Arya had asked Davos about the pouch he always wore, and he’d told them the story. The reminder still made her wince. How painful that must have been. _He must have been so frightened._

“Aye, and I hear Stannis did it himself.”

“True.”

It was not hard to picture King Stannis chopping someone’s fingers off. Sometimes his voice was so sharp that Sansa could imagine him tearing a person limb from limb with his words alone.

“My point is that I’m a bastard. But if I prove useful to King Stannis, he may do for me what he has done for Davos Seaworth.”

“Is that why you’re so eager for him to execute Slynt?” The second man sounded amused. “Are you wanting to become Commander of the City Watch?”

“Maybe.”

“The last I heard, you serve Lord Renly, not Stannis.” Sansa could almost hear the second man rolling his eyes.

“King Stannis and Lord Renly are on the same side,” Storm said, his tone unconcerned. “We’re all here to fight the same battle.”

The door suddenly swung wide open, and the two men walked into the corridor. One of them had a pockmarked face, while the other - larger and broader with blond hair - was more pleasing to look at, though he was not precisely handsome. Sansa stood frozen, her eyes wide. Would they be angry with her?

The pockmarked man elbowed the blond man. “It’s the Stark girl,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t you be tucked away with your septa somewhere?” he asked more loudly. Sansa could tell by his voice that he was the one called Storm.

Lifting her chin, she gave him an approximation of Mother’s most imperious look. “I was looking for my lady sister,” she said. “Have you seen her?”

The blond man’s lips twitched. “No, my lady.”

“Well, then. I bid you a good day, sers.”

She could hear them chuckling as she retreated, but she kept her head held high, and did not run.

***

Sansa had not been introduced to every knight of the Kingsguard. She knew Ser Allard and Ser Barristan, but the broad, white-clad, blond knight who showed up outside her chambers two hours after she found Patchface’s body, was only vaguely familiar.

“I am Ser Gerald Gower,” he said, bowing slightly. “Knight of the Kingsguard, and your new personal guard, by order of the king.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

His voice triggered a memory of a chilly corridor; an overheard conversation. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment. “Well met, ser,” she said faintly. 

“Your household guards will of course still be needed,” Gerald went on, “but I will be overseeing them, and taking their training in hand.”

“That will be a comfort, won’t it?” Jeyne said, rubbing Sansa’s back soothingly.

“I - I suppose.” The horrible purple face was back in her mind’s eye. _Jeyne doesn’t understand. She didn’t see._

“And the king wishes for you to move, my lady,” Ser Gerald added. “Now that House Tyrell has vacated the Maidenvault, His Grace wants you and your household to have the apartments there.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. Her hands were shaking again.

“The king is most generous,” Jeyne said. “Now I think it would be best if you were to leave Lady Sansa in peace, ser. She’s had a dreadful shock.”

***

The day after the murder, Sansa awoke after little sleep with a clear purpose.

“I would see the princess,” she told her maid. “Could you find out if she is willing to accept my call?”

Shireen had sequestered herself in her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast, and would not see anyone but her three ladies. But Sansa was quickly added to the list of acceptable guests, and she went to see her as soon as good manners permitted.

“Thank you for letting me visit,” Sansa said, holding both of Shireen’s hands in her own. “I feared you might blame me, as I was the one who found him.”

Shireen shook her head fiercely and squeezed Sansa’s hands, but said nothing. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

“We could find you a new fool,” Lady Carellen suggested gently, looking at Lady Alynna and Lady Marissa and then back at Shireen. The other two had been quick to nod in agreement. “A better fool!”

But Shireen did not want a new fool. She began to sob - a painful, heart-rending sound - and Sansa found tears returning to her own eyes. Hesitantly, she opened her arms, wondering if that sort of comfort would be welcome. Shireen accepted the hug at once.

For a while they just held each other.

“Patches was always there,” Shireen eventually said, hiccoughing. “Ever since I can remember. He’s always been there for me. Always.” She took a shuddering breath. “He was more than a fool to me.”

Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, Sansa nodded. “He did not deserve to die in such a way,” she whispered. _Surely no one deserves such a death. Least of all a harmless, witless fool._

“They’re saying he choked on some food,” Lady Marissa said, shaking her head sadly.

Sansa looked up. “They are?” _Can that be?_ She had never seen anyone choke on food before, but she would not have expected it to look quite so gruesome. And he had not been near any food when she had found him. _Perhaps he was running to find help?_

“Yes. And that’s not all the court is talking of.” Lady Marissa fixed Sansa with a searching look. “Is it true you are being given House Tyrell’s apartments in the Maidenvault?”

All the ladies looked at her. Sansa nodded. “It is.”

“And a knight of the Kingsguard to protect you?” Lady Alynna asked, her eyes wide.

“Ser Gerald Gower,” Sansa said. “Yes, he’s outside the door as we speak.”

Lady Marissa, Lady, Alynna, and Lady Carellen all looked at each other meaningfully.

Her stomach squirming, Sansa frowned at them. “Why do you ask?” She had not been in any state to give the matter much thought the previous day, but now she wondered at it. _Is the king trying to be kind to me?_ Her heart jolted. Even if it was only an outward gesture to show the court at large that she was under his protection and in his favour, that was still a good sign.

The ladies all glanced at Shireen and wiped the meaningful looks off their faces. “It’s nothing,” Lady Marissa said. “We should order some tea for the princess. Shireen, would you not like some tea?”

Sansa put the king’s gesture from her mind and focused her attention on Shireen.

***

In the days that followed - though she always put aside an hour for the princess - Sansa was almost relieved to find the rest of her time endlessly occupied with packing and unpacking, answering the questions her servants seemed to have every other minute about where everything and everyone was supposed to go, and then making several decisions about how her solar and her private chambers were to be decorated. She did not need to change very much, but the Tyrells had left rather a lot of green in their wake, and though it was all in good taste, Sansa simply preferred her surroundings to be done more in ivory, gold, and blue. While she kept busy with trivial matters, she could not think overmuch of what she had seen.

But in the quiet moments, when sleep refused to find her, she thought endlessly of it. At first she would just relive the scene over and over again, but as the days passed the horror became less fresh, and different thoughts began to assault her. _Did he truly choke on a piece of food?_ she wondered, tossing and turning on her pillow. _Or was he strangled?_ But who would want to strangle a witless fool? It seemed so nonsensical. Had the Tyrells been responsible? King Stannis believed they had poisoned his wife. Could they have done this, too?

Sansa might have tried to watch them and see whether any of them behaved as if they were guilty of murder, but they had all gone back to Highgarden. They had left at the same time her family had, just before she found Patchface.

 _They can’t have done it,_ Sansa usually concluded, unable to fathom _anyone_ being capable of causing such a death. _And they had no reason to._ It was much more likely that he had simply choked on a morsel of food.

And yet...

A week after her family left, everyone but Sansa and Shireen seemed to have forgotten about Patchface. _It is almost as if it was a nightmare only we had._ No one at court spoke of him, and no one seemed to care that he was gone.

“It’s as if he never existed,” Sansa said to Jeyne, her mood brought low by the afternoon’s dreary, grey weather. She had wanted fresh air, but this turn in the garden was not doing what she had hoped to restore her spirits.

“That’s not true, my lady,” Ser Gerald said, speaking before Jeyne had a chance to respond. “The king had Grand Maester Gormon himself examine the body, and the gold cloaks are investigating the matter.”

“Oh.” Sansa frowned over her shoulder, not entirely certain she liked how readily he spoke up, but still grateful for the information. “I think I would like to speak to Maester Gormon, if that is true.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged, my lady.”

“I don’t see why you care so much. He probably just forgot to chew before he swallowed, witless thing,” Jeyne said with a shrug. “Anyway, it’s no great loss. He was so unnerving.” She affected a shudder.

The following day Sansa was directing a pair of servants as they replaced some of the tapestries in her new dining room - doing her best not to yawn too frequently as she’d had another night of fitful sleep - when she was surprised to see Lord Davos knock lightly on the open door. She was even more surprised to see King Stannis appear in his wake.

“Please carry on,” Davos said to the servants. They had both frozen in the middle of securing a tapestry depicting a lady, a unicorn, and an abundance of fruit, and seemed not to know what to do. They both looked relieved, and kept working.

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtseyed, “Lord Hand. What brings you here? Shall I send for refreshments?”

“No, no,” Davos said, smiling. “We were just passing through, and His Grace told me how interested he was to see the progress you’ve made. I trust your new accommodations are to your liking?”

Sansa glanced at Stannis. He was standing half a step behind Davos, glowering at him. But when he saw that she was looking, he straightened his back and made his face blank. It did not appear as if he was interested in much of anything.

“They are, thank you,” Sansa said, smiling even as her stomach plummeted with suspicion. “It was very thoughtful of… His Grace… to have me settled here.”

Lord Davos did not blush, but his smile became somewhat bashful. He cleared his throat and shot Stannis a meaningful look. “Indeed, yes. Did you not say you wanted to ask Lady Sansa a question, my king?” He took a step backwards, placing the king more firmly in her line of sight.

Stannis turned his head to glare after Davos before looking back at her. She clasped her hands neatly in front of her, and tried to make her expression as polite and attentive as she could.

“Are you well?” he asked, taking a step forward and examining her closely, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Heat rose to her face. _Does he really care? Or is this an attempt at courtesy?_ She glanced at the servants and then back at him. “I am very well, Your Grace. I hope you are well, too.”

He furrowed his brow. “I’m fine.” He looked at Davos. Davos raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “Have you… any plans for the day?” he went on, closing his eyes briefly and grimacing.

 _What?_ She looked at Davos, but he was rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. Stannis was now looking at her with even more than his usual intensity, as if the fate of the known world might be decided by her answer. “I - I had planned to meet with Maester Gormon,” she stammered. “But I’m told his schedule won’t allow for a meeting until next week.”

Stannis frowned at that. “Are you ill?”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “But I have some questions I had hoped he could answer.” Had they been speaking privately, she might have told him that she had questions about Patchface’s death, but she did not wish to start the servants gossiping.

He grunted and fell silent for a moment, searching her face. “I should like for you to dine with me,” he said suddenly. “And Princess Shireen.” For once he did not appear cross.

“Oh.” Her stomach swooped. _A private dinner?_ If Stannis wanted to spend time with her, surely that meant he did not dislike her entirely. A genuine smile made its way to her lips. “I’d like that very much, Your Grace.”

His gaze seemed drawn by her smile, but when he had stared for a little longer than her smile had managed to last, Sansa surmised he was probably just staring into the middle distance. 

_Were his conversation skills this poor before our betrothal was announced?_

She thought of the meeting she’d had with him and Father, their moonlit meeting in the gardens, and the walk they’d had when he’d escorted her to the Tower of the Hand. She was sure he had not behaved like this then. His behaviour had not been courteous, but at least he had been paying attention.

Eventually she gave up. “Would you like us to dine together this evening...?”

He blinked a few times. “Tonight? No. You’re clearly still getting settled.” He stared at the servants as they busied themselves with the tapestry. They were not as good as Ser Allard was at pretending not to eavesdrop. He cleared his throat. “Three days from now.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I look forward to it, my king.”

He tapped his hand on the outside of his thigh, nodded, and turned to leave. Lord Davos followed, sending her a bemused, apologetic look.

***

As fortune would have it, Grand Maester Gormon’s schedule miraculously cleared up, and he was able to meet with her the day after the king’s visit to the Maidenvault.

“My lady,” he said once they were both seated. “How may I be of service?” 

He had directed her to a comfortable bench in his chambers below the rookery, and the required courtesies had been taken care of. Sansa had accepted a cup of peppermint tea from the maester’s own hands, and was finding just the scent of it to be remarkably refreshing. The maester was drinking from the same pot, so she decided it was safe to taste it as she searched for the strength to ask her question.

“I know it is probably not my place, but I would very much like to know what you discovered when you examined Patchface.” She looked him steadily in the eyes. “Please.”

“You were the one who came upon him, were you not?” Gormon asked, wrinkling his already very wrinkled brow. “Terrible. Terrible.” He shook his head. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Please,” Sansa said, clutching her cup and giving Maester Gormon her most imploring look. “Tell me. I need to know. Did he truly choke on a morsel of food?”

He sighed. “No.”

She closed her eyes. _I knew it._ “What happened to him?”

“The king does not wish the court at large to be made aware,” Gormon said reluctantly. He drank half his tea in one gulp and placed the empty cup on a nearby table.

“I am his betrothed,” Sansa said, lifting her chin. “I will be queen.”

His expression softened. “So I’ve heard. My nephew was disappointed the king chose you over his daughter.”

“Lord Tyrell is your nephew?” Sansa could not believe it. _And the king trusts you?_ She looked at her cup of tea and bit her lip.

“Aye.” He chuckled. “And before you ask, His Grace had little to do with my appointment. The Conclave chose me as Maester Pycelle’s replacement, and that was that.”

“Of course,” she said, blushing, “I had not meant to ask. I was only surprised because you do not look very much like Lord Tyrell.”

Maester Gormon smiled and patted his slim stomach. “I do not have his appetites.”

Sansa put her cup on the table without finishing her tea. “Perhaps I should go.”

“You no longer wish to know what happened to the fool?”

She looked up quickly. Gormon’s expression was mild. “I wish to know very much,” she said, frowning at him. “But you are not permitted to say.”

“I have already told you his death was no accident. That is more than the rest of the court knows. But I might tell you more, provided you swear not to speak of the matter with anyone but myself or the king.”

She sat up straighter, her heart pounding. “I swear. Upon my honour as a Stark, I will not breathe a word.”

Maester Gormon nodded grimly. There was a tense silence, and Sansa hardly dared to breathe. 

“The fool was poisoned, my lady.”

Her heart jumped to her throat, and she covered her mouth to prevent an alarmed noise from escaping.

“I saw at once that it was the strangler,” he went on, his face serious. “A very rare poison; a hideous way to die.” 

“Were there any clues as to who might have poisoned him? Any witnesses?” she asked, lowering her hand shakily. She watched him closely for his reaction, but his wrinkled face was impenetrable.

“No,” Gormon said heavily. “All I could see was that it was the strangler.” He stood up from the bench and paced back and forth a few times. He moved quickly and easily, seemingly unbothered by the aches of age. “Perhaps the gold cloaks have found something by now; they searched the castle high and low. But for all I know, the fool swallowed it by mistake.” He stopped and threw his hands up. “Though the gods know where he might have found the poison. I certainly don’t keep any in my stores.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Sansa said, staring down at her hands. She did not know him well enough to say whether he was being truthful. _Maybe he’s right about the gold cloaks. Maybe they have found something._ She thought of Ser Rolland Storm: the pockmarked man who became Commander of the City Watch, and the reputation his gold cloaks had for being fiercely disciplined, and loyal to the Crown. Somehow she doubted his willingness to tell her anything about it. Betrothed to the king or not. _Besides, I cannot ask him. I swore I would only speak of the matter with Maester Gormon and His Grace._

She did not linger after that, and Maester Gormon sent her on her way with a fatherly pat on the back. He told her to come back to see him if she continued to have trouble sleeping. But Sansa knew she would not.

***

Sansa wore her black silks to the dinner with Stannis and Shireen. With Patchface so recently murdered, she did not feel comfortable wearing anything else.

_I have worn so much black since I came here._

Stannis and Shireen greeted her politely, but their faces were somber, and the mood in the king’s private dining chamber was heavy and airless. This was not helped by the large, black table that dominated the room with its carved high-backed chairs, nor the closed window shutters and poor lighting. True, there was a blazing fire in the hearth, but Sansa thought more torches and candles could have been lit.

It took two cups of wine for Sansa to build up the confidence to address Stannis directly. She and Shireen had been speaking quietly about the weather and a book of poetry they had been reading, both of them steering well clear of any topic that might bring the subject of Patchface to the fore. Stannis had kept silent, but Sansa was sure his eyes had been on her, boring into her skin with every sip of wine, every bite of food, every polite comment about how cold it was getting.

“Your Grace,” she said, the wine breathing false confidence into her voice, “you have been very quiet. Is the food not to your liking?”

“The food is fine,” Stannis said, not seizing the opening like some men might, or offering a reason for his silence.

Stubbornly, Sansa pressed on. “And the wine? You have not touched it. Do you prefer something different?”

“I avoid wine, as a rule.”

Sansa, who had been about to reach for her cup, abruptly changed course and reached for her napkin instead. “Oh?” She had noticed that the king usually took water with his meals, but she had no idea why.

“I prefer to keep my mind sharp.”

_As sharp as your tongue?_

“And what of desserts? Why do you avoid them?” Sansa hoped her curiosity would not irritate Stannis. Though if her questions did irritate him, it wouldn’t really change his habitual cross expression much.

“Indulging in gluttony weakens and slows the body. Would you prefer a fat husband?” Stannis raised a brow and sipped his water pointedly.

Sansa thought of fat King Robert and quickly shook her head.

For a second she thought she detected a gleam of something like amusement in Stannis’ eyes, but the cross expression was back before she could be sure.

“Will there be no dessert tonight, then?” Sansa asked, trying not to betray her disappointment. If Stannis did not wish to grow fat himself, he would surely expect her to eschew sweets too, wouldn’t he?

“Shireen ordered lemon cakes, I believe,” Stannis said, glancing at his daughter. Shireen nodded shyly.

Sansa smiled at the princess. “They’re my favourite! Did you know?”

“I did,” Shireen said, flushing with pleasure. “I had noticed you liked them, but Marissa asked Lady Jeyne for me to make sure.”

Blinking rapidly to prevent herself from tearing up, Sansa thanked Shireen in a heartfelt tone of voice. “That’s so thoughtful of you. You’ve had so much on your mind… you shouldn’t be bothering about such things.”

“It was nice to think about something else,” Shireen said, looking sadly at the table.

Sansa hesitated, but decided to do her best to lighten the air. “Now you must tell me what your favourites are, so that I might return the favour one day,” she said gently.

“Strawberry tarts,” Shireen said, shooting Sansa a quick smile.

Sansa smiled back, meeting her eyes. Shireen had only just started to smile again, and every single time she did, it seemed like a gift. Remembering that the king was still there, Sansa tore her eyes away from Shireen. “And Your Grace? What is your favourite dish? It does not have to be sweet.”

“You may call me Stannis,” the king said, his voice very different than usual. He was looking between Sansa and Shireen with an expression that Sansa had never seen on his face, but was still familiar. Her heart fluttered hopefully in her breast. “And I have no particular preferences. Food is food.”

“That’s not true,” Shireen said, directing her blue-eyed gaze at her father. “You like smoked salmon. You never have seconds except when there’s smoked salmon.”

Stannis blinked at his daughter’s contradiction. “Perhaps I do,” he conceded. “Will that satisfy you, my lady?”

“Yes, of course.” Her heart was still fluttering, and it seemed to have grown. She had realised why his expression looked familiar. _He is looking at Shireen the way Father sometimes looks at me and Arya._ “And you may call me Sansa.” She could not believe how well this conversation was going.

He nodded and met her eyes. “Sansa.” 

Heat rushed to her face with such force that her cheeks tingled with it. Her name had never sounded like that before. It wasn’t just that his accent was southern, there was something in the way he used his voice that was different. It was almost like a touch.

Thankfully, the servants arrived with the lemon cakes at that moment, and Sansa was able to use the distraction to compose herself.

Stannis sat quietly while Sansa and Shireen enjoyed their lemon cakes, watching them both with a thoughtful look on his face. Sansa tried not to notice, and did her best to focus on Shireen and her dessert. It was of no use, however. She could barely finish her cake as her stomach was all tangled up with butterflies and the beat of her heart.

When Shireen made her excuses and stood to leave, Sansa almost followed her example. But something stopped her. She had so many questions, itching to be asked. Maester Gormon had said she was allowed to discuss the poisoning with the king, and when might she have another opportunity to ask him?

“Shireen is still very upset about Patchface,” she said once they were alone, watching Stannis carefully. 

A shadow crossed his face, and he frowned. “He was only a fool.” There was something bitter in his voice that did not match his words.

“I know,” she said softly. “Which is why I don’t understand who would want to harm him.”

Stannis pressed his lips into a thin line. “Do you really wish to involve yourself in this?”

She squared her shoulders and tried to make herself look as firm as he did. “Yes. I am to be queen. I should know what goes on in the Red Keep.”

He stared at her, his eyes flashing with some emotion she could not name, and nodded slowly. “You spoke to Maester Gormon, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you that Patchface was poisoned?”

She nodded. “Yes. But he did not know whether the gold cloaks had found any clues as to who poisoned him.”

Stannis grunted, and looked at her for a long moment, seemingly thinking. She waited as patiently as she could.

”The gold cloaks found a satchel of purple crystals in Lord Alester Florent’s chambers. It was the same poison that killed Patchface, according to Maester Gormon. The strangler,” Stannis said eventually, looking into the fire.

Sansa couldn’t believe her ears. “The poison was in Lord Florent’s chambers?”

“Yes. He was questioned, of course, but he swore on his life that he had no idea where the satchel came from.”

Sansa opened and closed her mouth, unable to think of anything to say. _Lord Florent?_ Why would he want to kill an unimportant fool? Patchface was no threat to him. “Do you think he did it?”

Stannis snorted. “No.”

“Then how did it come to be in his room?”

“I expect the murderer put it there.”

“And do you know who -”

“The same people responsible for my wife’s death,” Stannis said, cutting her off. He was scowling.

Sansa shook her head. That didn’t make any sense. “If you’re sure, why not have them arrested?”

“Why do you think?” He looked away from the fire to give her an expectant look.

She frowned and tried to understand. “You have no evidence against them,” she said slowly, recalling his reason for not acting on his suspicions regarding Queen Selyse.

Stannis nodded, but still looked expectant.

“And…” she stalled, thinking, “... you do not wish for it to become public knowledge that Patchface was murdered, and that the poison was found in your master of coin’s chambers.”

He gave her a long, searching look. Something like grim satisfaction passed over his face, followed by the sour expression she was much more used to. He nodded. “Whoever planted the poison wanted to implicate Lord Florent and blacken his name. Possibly even have him put on trial.” He rubbed his jaw. “The Tyrells and the Florents get along like cats and hens, so their attempt to pin the blame on Florent isn’t what surprises me. What does surprise me is their victim.”

“Patchface?”

“Yes. Perhaps he was chosen because he is a fool, and of little importance, but I suspect something else is at play.” He scowled. “I simply do not know what.”

Sansa resisted the urge to chew her lip. “What do you intend to do?”

For a moment, Stannis stared into the fire that blazed merrily in the hearth, his gaze both focused and not. The wind whistled outside the shuttered window, and despite the heat of the room, Sansa shivered. 

“Nothing,” he said at length.

“But…” Sansa looked at Shireen’s empty seat. “How do you know the murderer won’t try to poison anyone else?”

“Worried?” he said darkly. “That’s good. A queen should always worry, and queen you will be.” He paused. “But I do not think they will be spreading more of their poison for the time being. They’ve left the city.” His lips thinned again. “And as they’ve been promised an alliance with my firstborn son, they’ll want you alive to bear me one.”

 _And yet you have a knight of the Kingsguard watching my every move. You are worried, too._ “Maester Gormon is a Tyrell,” she pointed out. “He is still here.”

Stannis scowled. “True.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I would not have chosen him,” Stannis said, still scowling deeply. “But he has proved competent, and I have never caught him in a lie.”

 _That’s not an answer._ She nodded anyway.

They were silent for a long moment, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Eventually Sansa realised it was not proper for them to be alone together for such a long time, even with guards right outside. She began to get up.

“Wait,” Stannis said.

She sat back down.

He shifted in his chair. “You have... settled in your new apartments?”

“Yes, I think so. Thank you again. They’re beautiful.” _I must remember to thank Lord Davos, too._

“Good.”

She tried not to stare at him. Was that another attempt at courtesy? It made for a very pleasant change, but Sansa wished she knew what he was thinking. He never seemed to behave in a predictable way.

When she was on the verge of trying to leave again, Stannis spoke.

“You asked me at the feast what your duties would be as queen,” he said, looking over her shoulder rather than at her. His face had reddened. “And I have told you before that I have no use for an empty-headed wife.”

Her heart was pounding. “Yes?”

“Now that you have settled, you should have time to take lessons.”

 _Lessons?_ “I assure you,” she said, her stomach tightening, “I completed my education in Winterfell. My septa could write to -”

“I know what ladies are taught. It is nothing of much practical use,” he said, cutting her off. “Your duties as queen will require you to know more than how to sew and sing. You will take lessons with my Lord Hand, and every member of my small council. It should be easy enough. There are seven of them, and seven days in the week.”

 _I know more than sewing and singing._ She took a silent, deep breath. “Shall I even take lessons with Maester Gormon, Your Grace?”

“Stannis,” he reminded her.

“Stannis.”

He met her eyes, and they stared at one another. His face, made as it was of nothing but hard angles, changed when his eyes came alive. _Even bare rock can look pleasing when bathed in sunlight._ Her heart was beating too fast.

“Yes,” Stannis said, still staring into her eyes. “But in the future, when you meet with Maester Gormon, you will allow Ser Gerald to remain in the room with you.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, her mind racing. Would she be safe even then? _And will Maester Gormon really agree to teach some of his secrets to me?_ They did not allow ladies to study in the Citadel. Perhaps he would just teach her nonsense and waste her time.

“Find Lord Davos in the morning,” Stannis said, getting to his feet. “Your first lesson can be with him.”

Sansa nodded and got up, too. She followed Stannis to the door, and smiled at him when he opened it for her.

“Thank you for a pleasant evening,” she said quietly, aware that Ser Gerald might be able to hear them now. “I hope we can have dinner again soon, Stannis.” She reached out to touch his hand for the briefest of moments.

Stannis looked at his hand and then at her. He nodded once, his jaw working, but said nothing. His eyes were still alive.


	9. Lessons

“How was your dinner with His Grace and the princess?” Davos asked, having offered Sansa a seat in his solar. He had also offered to send for refreshments, but Sansa had only just finished breaking her fast so she had declined.

The large window of the solar was partially open, and a seabird flew past with a loud squawk.

When her father had been Hand of the King, for Robert and then Stannis, this solar had been much the same. Some of the furniture had been rearranged, and a handsome model of a ship was now prominently displayed on the grand desk, but aside from that, it did not seem as if Davos had changed it much. Davos looked at ease behind the desk in question, and she hoped she looked equally comfortable sitting in front of it. _There’s no reason to be nervous._

“I think it went well,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He was smiling with his eyes again, and giving her his full attention.

“The king - Stannis,” Sansa glanced at Davos, but he did not look displeased by her use of the king’s given name, “- wishes for me to take lessons with every member of the small council.”

Davos nodded. “Yes, he told me as much.”

She clasped her hands tightly together. “Do you know what he expects me to learn?”

“For now, I think you will benefit just from getting to know us all a little better,” Davos said smiling. “His Grace - Stannis - and I were discussing the possibility of a future where you may need to attend small council meetings on his behalf, or on behalf of a future heir, and he thought it might be helpful for you to know how the small council operates, and what the different members actually do.”

 _Did he think that? Or did you?_ “I know what the different members of the small council do,” Sansa said, frowning down at her hands. “My father was Hand.”

“Of course,” Davos said quickly, his tone becoming dismayed, “no offense meant, my lady.”

She looked up. “I just don’t understand,” she said, searching his face for answers and finding nothing but his usual well-intentioned countenance. “I wish I knew what he wanted from me,” she added softly.

A huff of amusement was not the reaction she had expected.

“Perhaps the gods know, but Stannis certainly doesn’t,” Davos said, doing a poor job of repressing a smile. He was shaking his head.

She stared at him. “How can he not know what he wants from me?” Her stomach shrank as she thought of what Stannis had said about producing heirs. He’d mentioned it twice, now.

Davos shrugged apologetically. “All I know is that he seems to like you.”

Sansa closed her eyes and opened them again, her cheeks becoming hot. _Is he saying that to flatter me? Is it even true?_ “Do you truly think so?” she asked, using her most serious tone of voice. “Mother thought so, but I can’t help but think him perfectly indifferent to me and to this betrothal.”

His expression sympathetic now, Davos sighed. “I’m certain he is not indifferent. Though I do not blame you for thinking it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked down at her hands. _How does he know? Why can’t Stannis make it clear to me?_ She contained her questions, breathing deeply through her nose instead. “If you’re sure,” she said.

“I am,” Davos said, glancing out the open window thoughtfully.

She hesitated. “Has he - has he said anything about me? To you?”

He ducked his head to hide a smile, but did not quite succeed. “Stannis keeps his own council when it comes to private matters, but I have known him since we were young men. When it comes to matters of the heart, I’ve learnt to mind his actions, rather than think too much on his words.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side. “Do you mean I should consider his gestures? His wish to have me moved to the grand apartments in the Maidenvault, for instance?”

Davos cleared his throat. “Certainly.” He paused and picked up a pile of papers, shuffling through them. “Now, as Hand, I receive quite a bit of correspondence. I have a scribe to do most of my writing for me - a good thing, believe me. My penmanship is not fit to be seen - but I thought we might look at some of the latest letters I’ve received...”

***

“I don’t see why I should be wasting my time with this,” Lord Florent said huffily, though he gestured at a seat and poured two cups of wine.

His solar was very different from the Lord Hand’s. Everything dripped with gaudy displays of wealth. The furniture still smelled new - made in the latest fashion - and there were silk pillows, gold candlesticks, and a marble bust that was probably supposed to look like him. Even the cup he handed her was jewel encrusted.

She accepted the seat and the cup, but did not drink. She’d had too many conversations about poison lately. And while she was willing to trust that Stannis was right, and that Lord Florent had not truly been the one who poisoned Patchface, the poison _had_ still been found in his chambers.

“I’m sure this needn’t take long,” Sansa said, “but I must admit I was honoured when I discovered I’d be taking lessons with you, my lord.”

“Oh?” His expression was still grumpy, but a gleam of interest had appeared in his eyes.

“The master of coin is such an important member of the small council,” she said, managing her tone carefully. “I did not think I’d be trusted with the sort of information and access I’m sure you’re entrusted with.”

Lord Florent straightened in his chair. “Yes, well, the king knows I am a man of honour.”

“Unlike the previous master of coin,” she said, widening her eyes. “My father never told me the details, but I hear he left the Crown in terrible debt.”

Florent made a sound not unlike an angry cat. “May Petyr Baelish burn in the seven hells. It’s been quite a job, putting his mess to rights.”

“I’m sure,” she said, doing her best to sound positively rapt.

“Mace Tyrell wanted to be master of coin after Baelish, you know,” he went on, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “but the king knew better than to place him in such a position. I have no doubt that the Crown would be even worse off than it was with Littlefinger if that man had been handed the keys to the coffers!”

“Undoubtedly,” Sansa said, nodding.

“Besides, the Tyrells already had a representative on the small council,” Lord Florent said with a sniff. “I told the king it would be nonsense to have two of them, and he agreed of course.”

“Of course.”

In quite a good mood now, Lord Florent offered to show her some of his ledgers, eager to prove how full the coffers were, and how he had managed to reduce the Crown’s debt over the past few years.

The ledgers looked neat and orderly, and though it was difficult to tell at a glance, Sansa expected Lord Florent was probably right to say that the state of the Crown’s coffers was in good order. She did not say it out loud, but to her it did not seem as if Lord Florent had been the one to sow the seeds that had yielded such results. Sansa knew for a fact that he had not been involved in the Lannister fines, and judging by what he told her about the new system of taxation, Sansa surmised the king was responsible. It seemed fair to her, to tax the rich more heavily than the poor. _But it can’t have made the Crown popular with landed knights and lords._

“His Grace regularly looks these over himself,” Lord Florent bragged, “and he’s never once found fault with them. Only last month he was saying how pleased he is with the work.”

Sansa could well picture Stannis looking the ledgers over, but had trouble believing that he’d ever said any such thing. She nodded regardless.

Lord Florent showed her a few more ledgers, said several more uncharitable things about Mace Tyrell, and insisted a few more times that he, himself, was firmly in the king’s favour, before Sansa had to leave. 

_Poor man,_ she thought as she left his solar, vaguely aware of Ser Gerald stomping along in her wake, but not paying much attention to her surroundings otherwise. She did not like Lord Florent very much, but she could not imagine it was pleasant, having the gold cloaks find poison in one’s chambers. _If he truly knew nothing about it, it must have been a great shock._

“Oh!” She had walked right into something solid. Something with hands that were now on her shoulders. Flushing, she looked up to find Stannis looking back at her, his eyebrows raised. He was wearing his usual leather jerkin, but Sansa could not help but wonder whether he was wearing a breastplate beneath it. _Surely not._ Hastily she tried to take a step back, but found that she could not go very far since Stannis tightened his grip on her shoulders. For the space of a few heartbeats, they stared at one another. Looking so directly into anyone’s eyes was always a strange experience, but with Stannis it was powerfully unsettling. Her stomach did somersaults, and her body was rapidly overheating. She parted her lips, inhaling shakily, and suddenly the spell was broken. He released her and took a step back.

“Ah, interesting lesson?” he asked, clearing his throat and looking at something behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder, finding nothing there except Ser Gerald. He waved at her, smirking. He was not standing in Stannis’s line of sight, however. 

“It was,” she said, somewhat truthfully, looking back at Stannis. Her heart was still beating irregularly. 

“And Lord Florent treated you well?” His eyes swept over her now, as if to search for any marks Lord Florent might have left on her person.

 _I thought you were certain he was not responsible for the poison?_ “Yes,” she said, heart still unsettled. “He showed me some of his ledgers.” She paused. “I didn’t know you changed the way landed knights and lords are taxed.”

Stannis stopped searching her figure and looked directly at her again. His eyes flashed with something like satisfaction, and he looked much less cross than usually. He gave a nod, and his stance relaxed by a margin. “The new system has been in place for two years now.”

“Have you had any problems enforcing it?”

He frowned. “Problems?”

“Well...” she hesitated. _Is this my place?_

“Well what?” His tone was impatient.

Still flushed from before, Sansa’s face warmed up further. “I just thought the rich lords and landed knights might feel it was unfair that they’re taxed more heavily than the smallfolk. And… and I thought perhaps some of them might attempt to lie about their income in order to be charged less.”

The gleam of satisfaction was back, and Stannis nodded. “There were some who tried it.”

Ser Gerald chuckled. “But they only tried it the once.”

Stannis glared so venomously at Ser Gerald that Sansa glanced over her shoulder to see whether the knight was still alive. He was. And he looked amused.

“They were strongly encouraged to be honest,” Stannis said, still glaring at Ser Gerald. “When a lord or a knight is found to be lying about his income, he is first given a chance to correct the mistake. If the mistake is not properly corrected, he is fined. If the fine is not paid, he is sent directly to the Wall.”

“And those who are honest?”

Stannis frowned at her again. “What about them?”

“Are they rewarded?”

“Rewarded?” Stannis repeated, a note of irritation in his tone.

“They could be given a share of a shipment of spices, or fresh fruit, or a foal bred from an excellent horse…” she trailed off, unsure of herself. “It’s nice, is it not? When one is rewarded for being honest and making an important contribution.”

“Lords and landed knights have a duty to the realm,” Stannis said, still sounding irritated. “They are already rich. What other reward do they need?”

Sansa looked down at the floor. “It was only a thought,” she said quietly, regretting every word she had spoken. “I’m sorry. I must be delaying you. Were you on your way to see Lord Florent?”

Stannis went very still. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I - yes. I was.”

Behind her, Ser Gerald was chuckling again. She wished the ground would swallow her. Or Gerald. “I bid you a good day, then,” she said, curtseying quickly.

“Good day,” Stannis muttered. He had balled his hands into fists.

Thankful to have been so easily dismissed, Sansa walked away. But she had not been walking for a minute when Ser Gerald started chuckling once again. She whirled around to face him, not sure what she wanted to say, but quite sure that she wanted him to stop.

“Yes, my lady?” he said, grinning.

“What are you laughing about, ser?”

He shook his head, still chuckling. “Nothing.”

She crossed her arms in front of her. “It is plainly not nothing. I would have you tell me.”

He stopped sniggering. “It’s just a wonder that His Grace is able to converse with you at all.” He smirked. “What with all his blood abandoning his brain when you so much as glance at him.”

Sansa didn’t know precisely what Ser Gerald meant, but she could tell it was something crude. Huffing, she turned back around and started walking again. 

_Men are stupid._

***

At the end of a long week, her brain wrung out from the different lessons she had been given, Sansa sat on a cold garden bench, wrapped in her warmest cloak, and stared vaguely at a barren rose bush.

Today, Lord Varys had taken her through a maze of secret tunnels to see parts of the Red Keep she had never seen before. He had explained his role, and told her of the immensely valuable network of spies he had cultivated over the years. By the end of the lesson, her feet had ached from all the walking, and her mind had been stuffed with information she had no idea what to do with. Mother had said information could be her shield, but Sansa was not entirely sure how knowing about the political situation in Meereen could possibly help her. Hearing the reports about the dragons had been interesting, but there were always stories about magic and mystery from across the Narrow Sea. _How does Lord Varys know what to believe?_

Her lesson with Dale had been much more pleasant. He’d told her about the different ships of the royal fleet, about the new flagship he had commissioned - already in the process of being built - and promised to take her, Jeyne, and Devan sailing if the king would allow it. _Doubtful._

Lord Andrew Estermont, the master of laws, had greeted her almost as warmly as Dale had. They’d spent the first part of the lesson talking about Lady Alynna. She was his cousin, and had apparently been singing Sansa’s praises to him since Sansa’s first breakfast with the princess. Sansa made sure to return the compliments effusively. Andrew went on to show her the heavy tomes that contained the laws of Westeros. He also briefly explained the process of passing a new law, and showed her some of the laws that had been made since Stannis became king. “There are so many!” she had exclaimed to Andrew’s amusement.

Ser Barristan’s lesson had been very simple. He’d shown her the White Book, and very kindly asked her if she had any questions about his role. Flustered, Sansa had only been able to think of asking him about the tourneys he had competed in. But he’d been happy to share his stories with her, and spoke at length of his first tourney - at Blackhaven - and how Prince Duncan Targaryen had taken pity on him.

_If only Bran could have been there to hear..._

Of course, the minute she’d left the White Sword Tower she had thought of a thousand more appropriate questions to ask. _I must remember to write some of them down for our next lesson._

Maester Gormon had not seemed to care that Ser Gerald followed her into the lesson. Almost as soon as she had taken her seat, he had launched into a lecture on the importance of sewers. “Septon Barth was very wise to improve the drains, sewers, and wells of King’s Landing,” he’d droned, nodding to himself. “And King Stannis understands the importance of maintaining the work that was done.” He gave her three books to take with her after the lesson, and said he looked forward to discussing them with her in a week’s time.

She’d ended up with a headache after reading one page.

She knew the lessons were important. She knew she was learning things that would allow her to be a better queen. But the prospect of doing it all again, starting with Lord Davos tomorrow, was daunting. Especially since Jeyne had been spending the past week with her betrothed, which looked so much more enjoyable than creeping through dark tunnels with Lord Varys, or reading three books about sewers.

Jeyne and Devan just seemed to have such an effortless betrothal. Devan had taken to bringing Jeyne little gifts, taking her on walks through the gardens, shyly complimenting her gowns, and bringing her to countless family dinners and teas. Jeyne told Sansa that he had even kissed her once, right on the lips.

“It was wonderful,” Jeyne had confided, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. “I thought my heart would flutter right out of me!”

Her hand wandering to her lips, Sansa tried to imagine Stannis kissing her. She thought of the way he had looked at her when he’d used her given name at dinner last week, and his tight grip on her shoulders after she’d nearly bowled him over after her lesson with Lord Florent. In her mind his face came nearer and nearer, until he was looming over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him... _No._ She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. It was impossible to picture. Just as she could not picture Jeyne and Devan talking about poison and murder when they were alone together. Or taxes.

_It isn’t fair._

“Are you well, Lady Sansa?” Lady Alynna’s voice said, breaking through Sansa’s morose thoughts.

Her face warmed, and she quickly dropped her hand from her lips. “I’m very well, thank you.” In truth, she was surprised to see Alynna out of the castle. Shireen had not been seen outside Maegor’s Holdfast since Patchface had died, and Sansa had rarely seen Lady Alynna outside the princesses’ presence. “I was just thinking about my lesson with your cousin,” she added, smiling.

Alynna looked around. Sansa was partially hidden by a thorny rose bush, and the only other person near them was Ser Gerald, his white cloak flapping gently in the breeze. As ever, he made no attempt to hide his blatant eavesdropping. “You didn’t come and visit like you usually do,” Alynna said, taking a seat next to Sansa. “Princess Shireen was worried.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, her stomach dropping, “I must have been out here for longer than I realised.”

“We can visit the princess once we’ve had our fill of fresh air,” Alynna said with a smile. “You seem as if you need it.”

Sansa looked at Alynna for a long moment. She was neither fair nor plain, but she was neatly and prettily dressed, and her hair - thick and lustrous - caught the eye though it was plainly styled. She did not know Alynna very well, but she had always struck Sansa as a very sensible, even-tempered girl.

“I suppose I do,” Sansa admitted. She aimed a pointed glare at Ser Gerald, and did a quick sweep of their surroundings. There truly was no one else. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alynna said, her expression open. There was nothing in her gaze that suggested she was eager for gossip, but she still looked interested.

Ser Gerald rolled his eyes in response to her glare, and walked further away. Sansa watched him until she was sure he would not overhear anything. “I shouldn’t complain,” she said quietly.

“You never complain,” Alynna said, shaking her head with a small smile.

“I’m just tired,” Sansa admitted. She hesitated, her insides squirming. “And a little envious of my friend, Lady Jeyne.”

Alynne nodded. “I remember her.”

“Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t wish to spoil her happiness.”

“I won’t tell,” Alynna promised. She pursed her lips. “But I don’t think it would upset her to know that you are envious of her.”

Sansa sighed. “Maybe not. But I wish I did not feel this way. I want to be happy for her and Devan. And I am…” _How am I supposed to say this?_ Perhaps she had already said too much.

Alynna’s expression became strange. “Do you wish you were betrothed to Devan Seaworth instead of the king?” she whispered.

Lady Olenna’s face appeared in Sansa’s mind. _’King Stannis has already executed one unfaithful queen.’_ Sansa’s heart nearly stopped. “No.” She shook her head fiercely. “I am honoured to be the king’s betrothed. I feel nothing but friendship towards Ser Devan.”

Alynna’s shoulders relaxed. “What makes you envious of Lady Jeyne, then?”

“It’s silly,” Sansa said faintly, her heart still recovering.

“You don’t have to tell me, but perhaps I can help?”

“You’re too kind,” Sansa said, touched by the offer.

For a moment they both fell silent, but Alynna continued to watch her with that open expression.

Sansa bit her lip. “I’m envious because Jeyne and Devan seem so well suited and happy with one another. And because -” Sansa glanced at Ser Gerald and lowered her voice to the lowest of whispers. “And because Devan has already kissed Jeyne. I have never once been kissed.”

It all sounded so silly now that she had said it out loud.

Alynna looked thoughtful. “I have never been kissed either,” she confessed. “Though I came close once.” She shot Sansa a shy smile.

Intrigued, but not sure if Alynne wished to divulge anything else about the matter, Sansa leaned closer. “Truly?”

“He was just a hedge knight,” Alynna said, waving her hand as if to bat away a fly. “No one you might know.”

“No hedge knight has ever tried to kiss me,” Sansa said, her heart sinking. “I have been twice betrothed, and never kissed.” She closed her eyes. “But it really doesn’t matter, I’m just tired, and I’m being silly… please let us talk of something else.”

“We can talk of something else if you like, but I’m glad you never kissed Prince Joffrey,” Alynna said seriously. “I met him once, and that was quite enough.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that. Her memories of Joffrey were a confused jumble. _He was so charming when he wanted to be..._

“Do you want His Grace to kiss you?” Alynna then asked, keeping her voice low.

“I - I don’t know,” Sansa said, hiding her burning face with her hands. It was impossible for her to even imagine it, let alone know whether she _wanted_ it. “I’m certain he is much too busy to concern himself with such things. Honestly, it’s not important.”

Alynne was quiet for a moment. “But do you not think that you and the king are well suited?”

“I hardly know that either,” Sansa admitted. “He is a Baratheon and I am a Stark; in that way we are well suited.” She paused, thinking. “But I do not know his heart. Lord Davos told me to mind his actions rather than his words, but I’m still at a loss,” she finished, frowning. _Especially since I cannot be sure which actions to attribute to the king, and which to attribute to his Hand._

Chewing on her lip, Alynna seemed to be looking inward. After a while, she haltingly began to speak. “I used to be so frightened of him. But… I’ve seen him sometimes. With Princess Shireen. He is different with her than he is with most people.” She paused, chewing her lip again. “Did you know that when the princess was little, the king would not rest until he found someone who would treat her Greyscale? Everyone told him he should give up, that her life was already lost. But he refused. He saved her.” Alynna looked down at her hands. “Even though she is only a girl, and not a proper heir.”

Sansa’s insides clenched up. _That is to be my role. To give Stannis a son. To usurp Shireen’s position._ She made herself breathe evenly, though it was difficult. _But what if I’m unable to bear children? What will happen then?_ She shook the intrusive thoughts away and made herself concentrate on Alynna. “He wanted Shireen to be his heir rather than Lord Renly,” she said, dredging up an old memory. “I heard him tell my father so.”

Alynna smiled. “Does that not tell you something of his heart?”

Sansa looked at the rose bush, thinking. There were no roses to admire. Only thorns and brambles. 

She had known Shireen had contracted Greyscale as a child - her scars made it obvious - but Sansa had not known Stannis had worked so hard to save her. If she had not seen the fatherly expression he’d worn at dinner a week ago, she might have had trouble believing it, but as things stood, Alynna’s words rang with truth.

“Your nameday is coming up soon, isn’t it?” Alynna said brightly after a while.

“Yes. I will be six-and-ten.”

“We should mark the occasion,” Alynna said, her expression becoming determined. “I will speak to the princess.” She glanced at Ser Gerald before lowering her voice. “If you like, I’m sure we could eat nothing but sweets and drink nothing but wine, and stay up the whole night.”

Laughter bubbled up in her chest, and though she covered her mouth, Sansa could not stifle her giggles.


	10. Nameday Gifts

In the end, Alynna’s idea of staying up to eat sweets and drink wine did not come to pass.

“Please let me plan you a dinner,” Princess Shireen had begged. “I liked planning the one we had with Father. I wish - I should like to try planning a larger event.” Her eyes had shined with a peculiar mixture of determination and trepidation, and Sansa had not had the heart to deny her.

She was glad she hadn’t.

Shireen showed Sansa a new, wonderful side of herself over the days leading up to her nameday. Watching her put together a guest list, a menu, pen invitations, contemplate decorations, and plan the seating arrangements, was almost like watching a general plan a battle. No detail went overlooked, and whenever some minor challenge reared its head, Shireen just became more determined. She seemed to forget all about her sadness while she immersed herself in the task, and though Sansa helped her in every way she could - so did Lady Marya, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa - they quickly found that sometimes it was best not to get in Shireen’s way.

The night before the dinner, Shireen asked Sansa to help her choose a gown.

“You’re sure you’re ready to wear something that isn’t black?”

Shireen nodded, her expression solemn. “I’m still sad they’re gone,” she said, her voice soft. “But Patches would want me to be happy. I think Mother would, too.”

Sansa let her hand trail over the fabric of the gowns Shireen’s maid had brought out for them to look at. They were all modest, and none of them were exactly brightly hued, but there was one that caught her attention more than the others.

“This one,” she said, her hand pausing at the gown’s velvet texture. “It will bring out your eyes.” She smiled. “And we’ll be coordinated. I’m wearing blue, too.”

The gown, velvet and deep ocean blue fit her beautifully when she tried it on. She smiled and twirled, her eyes lighting up as the skirts made a satisfying swishing sound.

“See,” Sansa said. “It’s perfect.”

***

“Gods, you’re a vision.”

Sansa looked away from Devan and Jeyne, pretending to examine Shireen’s beautiful decorations. The large dining room in the royal apartments had been transformed into an homage to the north. There were winter roses and snowflakes made of silk, and at the centre of the long, elaborately laid table, there was a stunningly accurate ice sculpture of a direwolf - though it was not true to size.

“I’m wearing the necklace you gave me,” Jeyne said, her voice breathless with happiness. “Don’t you think it looks lovely with this gown?”

“It - it looked lovely on its own,” Devan stammered, “but on you it’s sublime.”

They weren’t wrong. The spun gold necklace looked very pretty with Jeyne’s sea green silks. And she was glowing from within, which made Sansa think she would have looked lovely no matter what she wore.

“And you look resplendent as well, my lady,” Devan added, having noticed Sansa. “Happy nameday.”

She was wearing one of her new gowns. Blue like a summer sky, made of buttery silk that hugged her figure like a lover. The ivory lace details were so fragile and fine that they reminded her more of spiderwebs than anything else. Her neck was bare and she’d left her hair in loose curls and a few subtle northern pleats. She had considered wearing some of her jewels, or the sparkling hairnet that looked particularly well with her gown, but a tiny part of her was hoping that the king might yet gift her with something that she might wear. Perhaps it was foolish.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s almost time to sit down. We’re just waiting for His Grace.”

Jeyne and Devan smiled and nodded, greeted Shireen, and had soon wandered over to Davos and Marya.

“Nearly everyone is here,” Shireen said, touching Sansa’s arm briefly. “He’ll be the last to arrive.”

“I know,” Sansa said, flashing Shireen a smile and forcing herself to stop glancing at the door. Nervously, she smoothed down her skirts.

Shireen smiled back. “You look like a lady in a song.”

Sansa tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “Truly? Jeyne says I should have worn my hair up. Or at least a net.”

“I think it looks beautiful,” Shireen said, her eyes earnest.

The last of the guests finally arrived: a familiar, handsome blond knight and a young lady who was clearly round with child. The knight thanked Shireen for the invitation and wished Sansa a happy nameday.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, smiling brightly at the couple. “And thank you for our dance at the farewell feast, Ser Gordon.”

“How quickly a month goes by!” Ser Gordon said cheerfully. “Please allow me to introduce my lady wife, Eleana Bowman,” Ser Gordon said, smiling. 

Lady Eleana gave a curtsey.

“When is the baby due?” Sansa asked, wishing that she could reach out and touch Lady Eleana’s bump. She remembered the excitement of her mother’s last pregnancy well. Sansa had often been allowed to feel baby Rickon’s kicks. Something inside her expanded and constricted both at once as she recalled it.

Lady Eleana and Ser Gordon both beamed with pride. “We only have one more month to wait,” Lady Eleana said, stroking her belly gently.

“May the Mother watch over you.”

The Bowmans thanked her and moved on. Sansa watched them walk away, still thinking of the way Rickon’s kicks had felt. She smoothed the material of her gown down, her hand lingering over her own flat belly.

_What must a baby’s kick feel like from within?_

Sansa did not get a chance to think more of the matter, or even speak to Shireen; the royal steward was announcing the king’s arrival. A hush came over the guests gathered in the large dining room, all eyes turning towards the door.

The tall, striking figure of the king was not an unfamiliar sight, and yet Sansa held her breath as he approached. Thankfully, Stannis’ long legs carried him swiftly towards her and Shireen. As he got closer, Sansa took in the surprising details of his garb.

 _Is he wearing silks and satins like a proper lord?_ She could not think what else his fine cloak might be made of. It was a shining, buttery-looking black with a cloth-of-gold lining. Sansa’s fingers itched to touch the material and see for herself.

The guests were murmuring quietly as the king closed the remaining distance, clearly wondering about his appearance. It was very rare for the king to wrap himself in such finery.

_He wears it well._

“Shall we sit?” Stannis said when he reached them, a pinched expression on his face. He did not seem at ease, and barely glanced at Sansa.

Her heart beating a little too fast, Sansa hurriedly stepped forward and took his arm when he offered it. Subtly, she managed to brush her hand against the cloak. The material was just as soft as it looked. Shireen took his other arm as she had done at the farewell feast, and Stannis swept them over to the head of the long table, his arm as rigid beneath Sansa’s hand as it had been the first time he'd offered it to her. The tension was rolling off him in waves.

Once they were seated, the other guests followed their lead, and the royal steward announced that the first course would be served momentarily.

“You look well, Father,” Shireen said, looking pleased with herself.

Stannis gave Shireen a pointed look. “ _Someone_ informed me there was a strict dress code for this occasion,” he said, his mouth becoming a thin line.

“There is,” Shireen said firmly, meeting his pointed look with one of her own.

Sansa had the wild urge to laugh. _They are mirror images._ Thankfully, she managed to contain the urge, and only a small smile escaped to her lips. Lady Marya, who was sitting beside Shireen on the opposite side of the table, gave her a knowing smile.

“I hear we are to expect northern dishes tonight,” Davos said from his seat on Sansa’s right.

“Yes,” Shireen said, her face brightening. “The first course should be beef and barley stew.”

“I think I prefer southern food, if I’m to be honest,” Jeyne said. She was sitting between Lady Marya and Dale. “But it will be interesting to see whether the cook manages to make it taste like _real_ beef and barley stew.”

Stannis remained quiet, though he made a small irritated noise when a servant optimistically tried to pour him wine.

“Well, I’m certainly looking forward to tasting northern food!” Devan said. He was sitting next to his father, smiling widely. Next to him, Kaelys Seaworth - Dale’s wife - was nodding in agreement.

“But before the first course arrives, shouldn’t our fair hostess say a few words to welcome everyone?” Davos said, looking questioningly at Shireen. 

Shireen went beet red and shook her head.

As if they’d rehearsed it, Stannis and Sansa both rose to their feet. They stared at each other for a moment. _Did we both have the same thought?_

The chatter in the dining room faded away, and every face turned towards them.

Stannis recovered from his surprise more quickly than Sansa did. “Today my betrothed celebrates her nameday,” he said loudly and clearly. In truth, he needn’t have raised his voice; the room was perfectly still. “My daughter, Princess Shireen, wished to give this dinner to honour her.” He fell silent and frowned. The silence stretched for a little too long. Stannis glanced at Davos.

Davos subtly mimed the lifting of a cup, a tiny gesture Sansa might not have seen if she had not been next to him.

“To Sansa Stark, soon to be Baratheon, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Stannis said seriously, raising his cup.

Everyone present echoed his words and raised their cups in her honour. The little hairs on her body stood on end at the sight and the sound of it, and heat rushed to her face. She stood tall and proud however, and smiled at the guests.

Stannis sat down, leaving her the only one standing. The guests were looking expectantly at her, and Sansa’s mind went momentarily blank. _It’s just a dinner,_ she reminded herself, breathing purposefully through her nose.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the guests. Aside from the Seaworths, Jeyne, and the Bowmans, she could see the other members of the small council, Lady Melara Florent, and Lady Tayla Estermont, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa, and a few other acquaintances. “I hope you will enjoy the evening, and the menu of northern dishes Princess Shireen has so kindly arranged for us.”

The guests smiled and looked at one another with intrigued expressions, though Lord and Lady Florent exchanged sceptical looks. Sansa sat down, and the servants began to stream into the dining room with the first course.

“It’s almost as good as it is in Winterfell,” Jeyne said, after tasting the stew. She had another bite and tilted her head to the side. “Could use more salt.”

“That is easily remedied,” Sansa said, taking note of Shireen’s slightly crestfallen expression. “Besides, I always thought the beef tasted too salty at home,” she added, shooting Shireen a smile. Shireen gave a tiny smile back.

“Salt keeps the meat from spoiling,” Stannis said, surprisingly already halfway through his own portion of stew. Sansa had only managed to have one or two bites.

 _He must be hungry._ “Yes of course,” she said. “But one does get tired of the flavour.”

“I know what you mean, dear,” Lady Marya said. “As much as I like onions, I thought I’d become sick of them in the months after my husband chose his sigil. Our friends and neighbours kept bringing them as gifts.”

Davos and his sons chuckled.

Venison pies came next, arranged much more prettily on the plate than Sansa had ever seen in the north. The cooks had even bothered to decorate the pies with intricate snowflakes made of pastry. Jeyne exclaimed they were the sweetest decorations she had seen on a pie, and Shireen seemed to grow much taller in her seat. Stannis offered no comment, but ate heartily. Devan was eating heartily too, and telling Jeyne how much he’d like to visit her home in the North if this was what he could expect to taste there.

“Once the new flagship is complete, I could take you all for a visit,” Dale said. “There will be a spacious cabin for the ship’s captain as well as a royal cabin,” he said, drinking his wine with a look of pleasure on his face.

“The ship won’t be ready until next year,” Kaelys said, her tone exasperated but her eyes fond.

“I think I’d rather sail south,” Jeyne said. “Go somewhere warm.”

Sansa did not blame Jeyne for that sentiment; the past few days had been particularly cold and windy, and there had even been a hailstorm. 

“Do you want to frolic on a tropical beach? We could sail to the Summer Isles and walk on bare feet in the sand!” Devan said. “Perhaps I would buy you a feathered cape, or a parrot to keep as a pet!”

“That sounds lovely,” Jeyne said, smiling wistfully. “Don’t you think that sounds lovely, Sansa?”

Sansa nodded, glancing at Stannis as she did. He was bent over his plate, seemingly deaf to the conversation. 

“Did you know that for the longest time, the people of the Summer Isles thought their islands were the only lands, and that their people were the only people in the world?” Shireen said, looking shyly at Jeyne and Devan. “I read about it in the Children of Summer.”

Jeyne’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “I had no idea! How silly of them.”

“It’s no sillier than some of the nonsense in The Seven-Pointed Star,” Stannis said irritably, motioning for a nearby servant to refill his cup of water.

An uncomfortable silence followed his words, and Sansa wished he had just remained deaf if this was how he decided to contribute.

“Of course we are all so used to it,” she said, doing her best to smile. “But I agree with His Grace; The Seven-Pointed Star must appear strange to those who have never studied its teachings.”

Everyone within hearing range relaxed and nodded, murmuring their agreement. Stannis frowned at her and looked ready to speak, but something caused him to press his lips together tightly and bend over his plate once more. Sansa didn’t look to confirm it, but she suspected that the ‘something’ had been Davos.

The third course turned out to be skewers of capon. Sansa frowned at her portion. The easiest thing to do - which was what people commonly did in the North - was to pick the skewers up and tear at the meat with one’s teeth. But Sansa didn’t like doing it; she always got grease on her hands. With an internalised sigh she picked up her knife and fork and resigned herself to the tedious process of trying to coax the meat off bit by bit. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Stannis doing the same thing.

“No, you’re supposed to do it like this,” Shireen was saying to her father and demonstrating. Stannis watched with a raised brow as Shireen picked one of her skewers up and attacked it with her teeth. 

“Lady Sansa is using her cutlery,” he said.

“I am,” Sansa said, blushing for some reason, “but Princess Shireen is right. That is how you’re meant to do it.”

Shireen smiled triumphantly at her father.

“Perhaps I’d try it if I weren’t wearing all this finery,” Stannis said. “I wouldn’t want to get grease on the fabric,” he added with a moody sideways glance at Shireen.

Shireen caught Sansa’s eye and gave her an exasperated look. “I’m wearing one of my finest gowns, and I’m not getting grease on it,” Shireen said pertly. “Lady Sansa helped me pick it out,” she added, her tone brightening.

Stannis looked at the gown and grunted.

“It is a very beautiful gown,” Davos said. “And you and Lady Sansa both look very charming tonight. Don’t you think so, Your Grace?”

Stannis’s eyes flickered towards her for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it almost at once. The same affirmative grunt sounded, and he became completely consumed by the task of coaxing meat off his bird with his cutlery, his face feverish with concentration.

A familiar, sinking sense of disappointment settled in Sansa’s stomach, and her appetite for skewered capon vanished.

For the remaining five courses, Sansa did her best to smile and take part in the conversation around her, but all she could think about was whether her betrothed would ever take any true notice of her, unprompted by Lord Davos. _And if not on my nameday, then when?_

After the cold fruit soup, Shireen tugged on her father’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear. He frowned, but nodded. Moments later, he got up from his seat. Everyone fell silent.

“Princess Shireen informs me that the final course will be served momentarily.” He paused, his lips thinning. “Lemon cake. Not a traditional northern dessert, but served tonight because it is Lady Sansa’s particular favourite.” He clenched his jaw tightly shut, appearing pained.

 _Gods above, this is a nameday dinner, not the Wall._ Sansa shot Shireen a grateful smile, though she felt no particular desire for lemon cake in her present state.

Stannis was about to sit down when Davos cleared his throat. “My king, wouldn’t this be a convenient time to present Lady Sansa with your gift?”

 _A gift? Truly?_ Her heart sped up even as she scolded herself for getting excited. _It is probably another book about sewers._

The dining room became so quiet that one could have heard a pin drop.

Clearing his throat, Stannis nodded to a nearby servant. “A nameday gift for my betrothed,” he announced, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere north of the direwolf ice sculpture.

The servant stepped forward and produced a small wooden chest. He bowed and offered it to her with both hands.

Her heart now pounding, she accepted the gift. For several terrifying seconds she held it gingerly, staring at it as if it were an adder, ready to bite her fingers. But it was no adder. It was a simple chest of mahogany, decorated with elegantly carved designs. They did not seem to depict animals or people; they were swooping swirls and pretty shapes. A polished silver key had been placed in the chest’s matching silver lock. After what felt like an age, Sansa gathered her wits and managed to turn it.

“Oh,” she breathed, unable to look away. 

A silver tiara rested on a bed of white satin within the chest. It was not decorated with any gemstones, but the metalwork was intricate and beautiful enough to stand proudly on its own. The metal had been tamed into swirls that reminded Sansa of dancing snowflakes and lace, and its mirror shine seemed almost unearthly.

“You will have a crown fit for a queen once we are wed, but until then, you may wear this one as it pleases you,” Stannis said. He was still standing, but he was looking directly at her now, his eyes searching her face intently.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, hardly daring to touch it. She looked up at him, unable to believe his generosity. _Is this at last the sign I have been hoping for?_ Was this his way of telling her how much he valued their betrothal; how much he valued _her_? “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, pouring her hopes into those words, wanting him to know how touched she was.

Eyes unguarded, lips parted, he inhaled as if to speak.

“Should you not help her put it on, Father?” Shireen said eagerly.

“Excellent idea,” Davos said, a smile in his tone.

Stannis tensed, snapping his mouth shut, but beckoned for Sansa to stand with a practised gesture of his hand.

Slowly, she rose to face him. He was taller than her by more than a head, but it did not hurt her neck to look up at him. She held her breath as he picked the tiara up and placed it carefully on her head, his eyes boring into hers the whole time. His hands felt surprisingly warm. Especially compared to the hard, cool silver.

The guests applauded, but the sound was faint and unreal to Sansa’s ears.

“A good fit,” he said in a low voice that was nonetheless perfectly clear to her. He pulled his hands back after lingering just long enough for her to notice it.

She inhaled shakily, filling her burning lungs.

They sat back down as the dining room continued to ring with applause, the volume of it suddenly much louder. Marya’s eyes were sparkling where she sat next to Shireen, applauding enthusiastically and exchanging secret smiles with her husband.

_What secret?_

Stomach sinking, Sansa observed the pleased, proud look Davos wore, the withdrawn expression that had appeared on the king’s face, and the mahogany chest that she still held in her hands, open and empty aside from an indentation in the white satin.

 _It is not truly a gift from Stannis,_ Sansa realised, her soaring heart crashing down to earth like a bird with a broken wing. _Of course it isn’t._ Why had she not realised at once? _Stupid Sansa._ She closed the chest slowly and placed it on the table, wondering whether Shireen would be very heartbroken if she said she had a headache and needed to retire early.

But before Sansa had a chance to say anything, an enormous, crown-shaped lemon cake - wheeled in by two servants - arrived to even more applause and delighted gasps. It was a thing of beauty, and under normal circumstances she would have been wild with joy at the sight of it.

Distantly, she noticed Stannis getting up again.

“Your Grace?” she asked, her voice coming out weak and surprised.

“I’m told you are to have the first piece,” Stannis said. He was holding out a hand, and the sight of it shook Sansa out of her daze.

_’I’m told.’_

“Yes of course.” She took his hand and he helped her stand up.

His eyes swept over her for a fleeting moment, beginning and ending at her new tiara, and Sansa sucked in her stomach unconsciously. His jaw worked, but he said nothing.

A soft hiss of whispers followed them as they walked along the long table towards the cake, but the tone of it was not malevolent. It seemed… excited. Or perhaps just intrigued. Sansa tried to see herself and Stannis through their eyes, but without a mirror it was difficult to picture how they might look together.

 _He is as finely dressed as I am, at least._ She looked him over subtly, taking in the pretty details that had been embroidered into the fabric of his doublet. _Antlers, of course._

“Shireen is right, you truly do look well tonight,” she said, the words tripping out before she remembered that Stannis was not fond of compliments. “That cloak suits you.”

She caught a flash of surprise in his eyes, but wariness replaced it, and then they hardened to flinty shards. “Save your flattery.” There was derision in his voice, and it was as if he’d stabbed an already open wound.

For a moment she was a young girl again, walking back from a tourney with a frightening, scarred man. _’Spare me your empty little compliments, girl.’_

She opened her eyes, forcing herself back to the present moment. Sandor Clegane had been drunk and angry. _And sad._ After what he’d told her, Sansa could understand why. But Stannis had none of Sandor’s reasons to behave so discourteously. No one had burned Stannis when he’d been a child. He was the king. Her _betrothed_.

_And yet he cannot even pretend to treat me properly without aid. Everything kind he does for me stems from Lord Davos._

A cold, empty cavern seemed to have replaced the inside of her chest. “As you wish,” she whispered. It was strange; she wanted to cry, but her eyes had never felt as dry.

_Why did he pursue this betrothal so relentlessly if he’s just going to treat me with the same derision he treated Lady Margaery?_

Stannis handed her a cake knife, and she cut two pieces out of the crown-shaped lemon cake. One for him, and one for her. Somehow she managed to smile at Alynna, Carellen and Marissa; they were cheering merrily for her nearby.

When Stannis offered his arm to escort her back, she hesitated. _How would he feel if I just walked past him? Would he even care?_ But her courtesies were too ingrained for her to do such a thing.

She and the king returned to their seats in frosty silence.

“Father?” Shireen asked, her voice careful.

Sansa listened, staring at her piece of cake without touching it.

“Yes?” Stannis sounded cross. _He always sounds cross._

“Is everything well?”

“Yes.”

Sansa could feel Shireen’s eyes on her. “Lady Sansa?”

She smiled at the princess, as genuinely as she could. “Yes?”

“Do you - do you not like the cake?” Shireen’s expression was timid, and she kept glancing at Stannis and then back at Sansa.

“It’s the most wonderful cake I’ve ever seen,” she said, smiling as genuinely as she could.

“You may eat my piece,” Stannis said, pushing his plate over to Shireen.

“Oh,” Shireen said, looking down at the slice. Slowly, still glancing frequently between Stannis and Sansa, she tasted the cake. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?” she asked, looking at Sansa with round, sad eyes.

Another forced smile. A stab of guilt. “I’m still a little full from dinner.”

“More for us, then,” an amused voice chimed in. It was hoarse and smoky, and Sansa recognised it at once, her heart swelling, every bad feeling falling miraculously away.

She turned her head around. “Uncle Brynden!” He did not like to be called Great-Uncle. “I thought you were in Riverrun!”

Brynden Tully - the Blackfish - had travelled with her mother during the war after leaving his post as Aunt Lysa’s Knight of the Gate, and he had stayed in King’s Landing for a little while after the city was won. Arya had loved him at once, but Sansa had not quite known what to make of him when first she met him. She had quickly come to love him too, however.

“And miss your nameday, little Sansa?” His weathered face wore a smile that reached his eyes. He became a little more serious when he looked at Stannis and inclined his head. “Your Grace.”

Stannis barely acknowledged Brynden. He was in the middle of glaring at an apologetic-looking Ser Allard who had clearly escorted Brynden and two other men inside.

“Have you really come just for my nameday?” Sansa asked, turning almost fully around in her seat. A small lump had appeared in her throat, and her chest was full and warm. It was silly, she knew it was, but she missed her family so terribly. Having Brynden here was almost like having a piece of Mother returned to her.

“Almost,” Brynden said, smiling again.

One of the two young men cleared his throat. “Will you not introduce us?” There was something teasing and pleasant in his tone. He took a step forward, but the other young man held back, looking around the room and its decorations with an interested expression.

“Knights in your Uncle Edmure’s service,” Brynden said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling briefly. “Ser Arvin Goodbridge and Ser Jallen Wallyce.”

“A great pleasure to meet you, my lady, and on such an auspicious occasion!” The cheerful young knight - Ser Arvin - bowed courteously. His eyes were a light… green? _No, hazel._ And his hair was sandy. Ser Jallen was taller and darker, with tan skin and brown eyes. _From Dorne?_

“This is a private dinner,” Stannis said before Sansa had a chance to respond. Ostensibly, he was addressing Brynden, but his eyes kept flickering towards Ser Arvin. “Perhaps you could make an appointment with Lady Sansa in the morning?”

“They’ve come all this way for my nameday,” Sansa said, very nearly cutting Stannis off and smiling at her uncle and the knights in turn, “I would like them to stay.” She did not let her gaze linger on Stannis; she disliked him too much at this moment to look him in the eyes without betraying her feelings. “Princess Shireen, do you not think it would be possible for them to have a bit of cake?”

Brynden, Arvin, Stannis, and Sansa all looked at Shireen. She blushed and nodded at her plate. It was as if the girl who had so enthusiastically planned this dinner had disappeared. Sansa frowned, but knew she could not do much about it at the present moment.

Still not looking at Stannis, Sansa got to her feet. “Come with me please, I will find you all cake and seats.”

“You two go with her,” Brynden said, “I need a word with His Grace.” Sansa’s face must have betrayed her disappointment, for he hurried to go on. “It won’t take long. And I promise I’m not leaving the city any time soon. We will have plenty of time to catch up, my dear.”

She nodded and reeled her unruly emotions in. “You should take my seat, then,” she said. “I will have a servant bring you a slice of cake. Or you could eat mine; I haven’t touched it.” She looked at Shireen. “Would you like to join us?”

Shireen shook her head, still staring down at her plate.

Another pang of guilt shot through Sansa, but she could not remain near Stannis for another moment. Not even for Shireen’s sake. Without another word, she walked off, trusting that Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen would follow. _My Uncle will be kind to her,_ she told herself to ease the guilt.

Having found cake and seats, Sansa smiled at the two knights. “Tell me good sers, is my uncle well?” He had been the picture of health when he’d been in King’s Landing last month, but several weeks had gone by since then.

“Indeed he is! Lord Tully sends his warmest regards, my lady. And -” Arvin elbowed Jallen. Jallen frowned at him, but after a pointed look from Arvin, his eyes widened and he hurriedly produced a small velvet pouch. “- And he sends a gift,” Arvin finished.

“Thank you,” Sansa accepted the pouch. “But have you any news? Has Lady Tully given birth yet?”

“She has.”

“Was it a boy or a girl?” Sansa asked, toying with the pouch in her hands. There was something heavy inside it.

“A strapping young lad,” Arvin informed her. “A fine Tully heir.”

“And Lady Tully fares well?”

The smile faded from Arvin’s face. “Alas, it was a long, difficult birth. The maester has her confined to her chambers. But we are all hopeful.”

“I will pray to the Mother for her swift recovery,” Sansa said, her heart filling with worry. She remembered her mother telling her that Edmure’s bride might be pretty, but that her hips were far too narrow.

“As we all do,” Arvin said gravely. His face brightened quickly, however. “Will you not open your gift, my lady?”

Sansa tugged on the drawstrings of the pouch until it opened and a heavy silver necklace tumbled out into her hand. The necklace was studded with sapphires and rubies, and the silver itself had been worked to resemble the scales of a fish. “It’s beautiful,” she said, tracing the scales with the tip of a finger. She turned her head around, lifting her hair out of the way. “Would you please help me put it on?”

“It would be my utmost pleasure and privilege,” Arvin said eagerly.

Jallen gave a small cough, but Sansa thought it sounded like a badly disguised laugh.

The metal was cool and hard against Sansa’s skin, but it warmed quickly. She touched the silver, feeling the grooves with the tips of her fingers. She was sure she had seen Mother wear a necklace much like it for special occasions, and she had to fight the lump in her throat again.

“I will make sure to tell Lord Tully how well the sapphires of his gift complement your eyes, and the rubies your hair, my most radiant lady,” Arvin said, bringing Sansa back to herself. 

She blushed. “Thank you, ser. It is a lovely gift. My lord uncle is too generous.”

“In truth, I would say it is your great-uncle who is generous,” Arvin said with a wink. “But I must ask you to pardon me for just one moment; I see my good friend, Ser Gordon, is here!” He stood up before he finished speaking.

“Your friend has quite a way with words, ser,” Sansa said to Jallen, watching Arvin and Gordon embrace each other.

“I should hope so, my lady,” Jallen said, his voice quietly amused, “what with all the practise he gets flapping his lips.”

Sansa laughed. The pair of them reminded her of Robb and Jon.

Arvin returned with Gordon and Lady Eleana in tow, and the five of them sat together, eating pieces of lemon cake as big as fists, and drinking plenty of wine to wash it down, laughing and exchanging news. Alynna and Carellen wandered over after a little while, and Sansa saw - much to her relief - that Marissa had taken Lady Marya’s seat next to Shireen. Arvin flirted with Carellen until she giggled her way into a fit of hiccoughs - clearly unused to such attention - causing Alynna to suggest it might be best if they retired for the night.

“I think we’ve had enough wine,” Alynna said, casting Sansa an apologetic look and tugging insistently on Carellen’s reluctant elbow. “But please tell Her Grace how much we enjoyed the evening, my lady. Everything was delicious.” 

“I will,” Sansa promised.

“I suppose Ser Jallen and I ought to escort you back to your seat,” Arvin said to Sansa, watching Alynna and Carellen’s retreating figures. “Though, I would gladly steal you away instead!”

Sansa laughed. “Well, why don’t you?” she asked, raising a brow. It was not a serious question and all of them knew it, but Sansa was curious to see what he’d say.

“Ah, my lady,” Arvin said in a voice like a mummer’s, casting an exaggerated frightened look at the king, “I fear I will become a head shorter if I do not return you to your betrothed - and quickly!”

A pang of fear shot through her. _Is Stannis angry with me?_ She almost turned her head to look at him, but something stopped her. What reason could Stannis possibly have to be angry? She had done nothing wrong. _He is the one who is wrong._ It was her nameday, and he had been moody and rude all evening. _He didn’t even choose my gift on his own._ She took a steadying breath and smiled sweetly at Arvin. “And would a night with me not be worth your head, ser?”

Jallen and Gordon laughed while Arvin looked momentarily stunned. When he recovered, he laughed too. Eleana even gave a nervous little laugh of her own. 

“Speaking of heads, we should return you to your seat before my friend here starts thinking with the wrong one,” Jallen said, raising a brow. 

Arvin made an outraged noise and declared that he would have no mercy on Jallen the next time they sparred. 

The two of them were still laughing when they walked her up to the head of the table, though the knights fell silent as soon as they came face to face with Stannis, both of them bowing quickly, bidding her a hasty farewell, and then disappearing like the ground beneath fresh snow. 

Their reactions did not bode well, but Sansa was still refusing to look directly at Stannis, so she focused her attention on Brynden instead. 

He was shaking his head and getting up. “I see those two idiots managed to present you with your uncle’s gift. Do you like it?” 

Sansa touched the necklace, thinking of her mother again. “I love it,” she said. “It’s so like the one Mother has.” 

“It was made at the same time, by the same goldsmith,” Brynden said, nodding. “It was your Aunt Lysa’s. But when I spoke to Lord Arryn, he told me he wished it returned to House Tully. Your uncle then decided it should go to you.” 

Remembering the comment Arvin had made with a wink, Sansa suspected there was more to that story, but she did not say anything about it. _Perhaps later._ “You spoke to Lord Arryn?" 

“I went to see him not so long ago,” Brynden said, nodding. “I was just telling His Grace about it.” 

Sansa resisted the urge to look at Stannis. “How is Cousin Robin faring?” From what her mother had told her, he was quite a sickly child. 

“He is hale and hearty,” Brynden said. “The gods know I loved your Aunt Lysa, but she did that boy no favours, spoiling him the way she did. It pains me to say it, but I believe he’s better off without her.” 

“Mother says she was sick in her mind,” Sansa said quietly, shuddering as she recalled what had become of her poor aunt in the end. Sansa had never seen the Moon Door, but she could well imagine. 

“I believe your mother had the right of it.” Brynden gave a heavy sigh. “But I’ve had a long day, little Sansa. Will you have time to entertain an old man tomorrow?” 

Hiding her disappointment, she smiled and nodded. “Of course, Uncle.” She kissed his scratchy cheek good night. 

As she took her seat, she noticed that Davos was gone along with Marya, and that Marissa must have left, too. She also noticed that Shireen’s face was pale, and she was hunched over in her seat. Finally, she looked at Stannis, her stomach in tight knots. 

He was sitting very still, his face carved out of stone. One might easily have mistaken him for a statue had it not been for his eyes. Sansa had seen his eyes express a variety of emotions, but this was new. They were burning white-hot with pure fury. And he was looking right at her. 

Her stomach clenched up causing a wave of nausea, and the blood in her veins cooled down uncomfortably. She reached for her cup of wine, her hand practically shaking, but found that it was empty. Mustering her courage, Sansa beckoned a nearby serving girl. The girl had barely finished pouring when Sansa took a fortifying sip. 

Across from her, Shireen looked frightened half to death. 

With Olenna Tyrell’s words about jealousy and executed queens circling in her head, Sansa wondered whether she looked equally afraid. 

The minutes ticked by in silence though the other guests laughed and chattered, and Sansa could not have been more aware of Stannis if she had tried. But she refused to be the first to speak. 

_Why is he angry?_ Was it because she’d left to go spend time with some of the other guests? Or was he angry she had wanted Uncle Brynden, Ser Arvin, and Ser Jallen to stay? _Did he hear some of the silly things I said to Arvin?_ Sansa didn’t see how he could have. They had been on the other side of the dining room, and there had been too much noise. _Did Lord Varys hear, and tell him?_ But even if he had somehow found out, was it a proper reason to get angry? Sansa had better reasons to be angry with him. She went over them one by one, her hands curling into fists under the table. 

Eventually Stannis leaned towards her, bringing his mouth right to her ear. Her skin prickled, but she suppressed a shiver. “You will speak to me in my solar before you break your fast tomorrow.” His voice was cold and commanding, and brooked no argument. 

Another, strong wave of nausea passed through her, but she dug her nails into her palms and did not let her face betray her. She had always been taught that courtesy was a lady’s armour, and she drew it about her now. “Of course, Stannis,” she said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “I’d love to join you for an early breakfast.” 

The fury in his eyes drained away, replaced momentarily by confusion. 

Silently, she took a deep breath. Uncurling one fist, she reached for her cup and drank. “We could even make it a weekly event, don’t you think?” She looked at him over the rim. 

Stannis furrowed his brow, his anger clearly returning. 

“Unless your schedule does not allow you an hour a week to spend with your betrothed?” The words came out sharper than she had intended. 

A vein was bulging and pulsing on the side of the king’s neck, and he was turning bright red. “Just be there.” His voice was strained. 

Those were the last words he spoke before taking his leave. 

Shireen did not linger long after that. She was pale and said she felt unwell. Sansa did not ask her for details nor try to make her stay. She felt unwell herself. 

Out of sheer stubbornness, Sansa stayed until it would be improper of her not to retire, speaking mostly to Jeyne, Kaelys, Devan, and Dale. Jeyne gave her many inquiring glances, clearly aware that something was not as it should be, but Sansa ignored her. She’d speak to Jeyne in private tomorrow. 

If she survived her meeting with Stannis. 


	11. Illuminating Conversations

The knot in her stomach seemed to be alive. Occasionally it would crawl up to her throat and make it hard for her to breathe properly, and then she’d have to close her eyes and think of Winterfell, her family, and of Lady. _I wish you were with me now,_ she thought, wondering whether Lady could hear her. The necklace from her uncle gave her a modicum of strength, but it was not nearly enough to calm her fully.

Aside from the Tully necklace, she wore dove grey silks and matching slippers. Her hair was neatly caught in a simple net, and her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that Ser Barristan, stationed outside the king’s solar door, had to knock for her. He gave her a kind nod as he resumed his position, his white cloak pristine. She managed a small smile in return. Her own guard kept his distance; not Ser Gerald this time, but a Stark household guard.

The door opened swiftly. Sharply. Stannis beckoned her inside with a curt gesture of his hand. She was unsurprised to see that he hadn’t bothered to arrange for any food to be available. But the solar was at least well lit and warm.

“Sit.”

She sat.

Stannis sat on the other side of his desk and glared at her. She straightened her back and did her very best to meet his gaze unflinchingly.

A few tense seconds ticked by.

“What did you mean by your behaviour last night?” Stannis asked, breaking the silence.

Her hands, clasped in her lap where Stannis could hopefully not see them, were going numb. “My behaviour?” She kept her tone light and curious, though her heart was in her throat.

Stannis clenched his jaw. “Do not play games with me, girl.”

 _Girl?_ “If I’ve offended Your Grace, I apologise,” Sansa said, trying to keep her tone calm.

“It’s not a matter of being offended,” Stannis said through gritted teeth, “it is a matter of _respect._ ”

She inhaled sharply. Ever since they’d been betrothed, no, ever since they’d first _met_ , she had been trying so hard to be respectful and kind. She had accepted this betrothal as gracefully as she had been taught, tried to get to know him and the princess, tried to be courteous and complimentary towards him, even though he barely showed her the same consideration, and last night he’d thrown it all back in her face. He’d treated her like he’d treated Margaery.

_’Save your flattery.’_

All she wanted was just a _little_ of what Jeyne and Devan had. A little of what she was sure she _might_ have had if she’d made a different choice. And last night, when he’d worn his finery, given her that tiara...

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.

All of it must have been due to Davos. Stannis did not deem her important enough to attempt to show her such gestures of care and kindness. Even Joffrey had been more gallant towards her, and he had been a bastard. Wasn’t Stannis supposed to be better than him? _Isn’t he supposed to be a good man?_

“I have tried to be respectful of you the best way I know how,” Sansa said slowly, meeting Stannis’ eyes for a moment before looking down at her lap. “You called it flattery and asked me to stop. So I did.”

Stannis snorted. “I have no use for pretty words, empty of meaning.”

Sansa lifted her chin and met his eyes once more. “Was it your idea to give me that tiara?” she asked quietly. Politely. “Was it your idea to move me to the Maidenvault?” _Or did you do those things because Lord Davos told you to?_ The last question remained unvoiced, but she could hardly believe she had dared to speak the first two aloud. Judging by his expression, he could hardly believe it either. 

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with the matter at hand,” Stannis said, though his face looked flushed.

Sansa took a deep breath and ignored her pounding heart. She kept looking him straight in the eyes. “I have no use for pretty gestures, empty of meaning.”

He bared his teeth at her. “That is what courtesy is: gestures and words that are empty of meaning. I thought you were a great champion of treating others with courtesy? Now you say you do not want it. Which is it, girl?”

Her face heating up, she shook her head, refusing to answer his mocking question. “We are betrothed,” she said, her voice betraying her with a tremor. “Does that not mean anything to you?”

Stannis blinked. Then he stared.

The silence in the solar stretched until it was unbearable, though Sansa was determined to bear it. She would not be the first to speak.

Eventually Stannis stood up and walked over to a sideboard where a jug and several cups stood at the ready. With no cupbearer present to perform the task for him, he poured himself a cup of water, and added a pinch of something that looked like it might be salt to it. He didn’t offer her a drink. 

He swallowed a large mouthful of his concoction. “I thought you understood that ours is a political match, made out of necessity.” He was facing her, but not meeting her eyes.

“I do.” She pressed her lips together. She didn’t know how to put her thoughts into words. They were a jumble of what Mother had said about growing to love Father over time despite her initial dislike, and of songs where the heroes endured trials to find their happy ending. She looked at Stannis’s hard face, tracing the angles with her eyes. _Is there truly no hope for us?_

“Well, do you expect me to chase you around the castle and beg for your favour like some green boy?” Stannis scowled at his cup. “I have more important matters to concern myself with than appeasing your vanity.”

A hot prickly sensation in her eyes forced her to squeeze them shut. “Then why did you give me such a beautiful gift?” she whispered around the lump in her throat. It would have been better if he hadn’t given her anything.

Stannis stared at her before looking quickly away and drinking more of his water. “Certain things are expected,” he muttered.

She frowned. “You never do things because they are expected. You do them because they are right.” She might not know Stannis very intimately, but this much was common knowledge. She held her breath as she watched his reaction, hardly daring to blink for fear of missing some small detail.

He turned around and started to pour himself more water, but Sansa could clearly see him slop most of it over his hand. He blew out a loud breath and slammed the jug and the cup down. “And what do you believe is right, here?” He strode back to his seat and fixed her with a piercing look.

He was flushed a deeper shade of red than before.

“I believe what I was taught to believe,” she said, swallowing with difficulty, and drawing confidence from every lesson she had ever attended, every comforting word her mother had whispered, and every action she had seen her father perform as a husband, a father, and a lord. “That my betrothed would -”

“I am not going to compete in tourneys with your favour tied about the tip of my lance, hoping for the chance to name you the queen of love and beauty,” Stannis interrupted with a sneer.

She did her best to keep calm. “I would not expect that of you, Your Grace.” She smiled sadly down at her hands. “I won’t deny it. I have always dreamed of being named the queen of love and beauty at a tourney, but it is not what I believe to be of the utmost importance.”

Stannis frowned at her, but leaned forward by an inch. “What then?”

Her heart stuttered. _Is he truly willing to listen?_ She sat up a little straighter. “I was taught a true lord would show me kindness and consideration, Your Grace,” she paused, gauging his reaction. His scowl was gone, replaced with an uneasy expression. “I was taught a noble, worthy man would honour me.” Her voice became a whisper. “Cherish me.” 

The words sounded so foolish now that she had spoken them, but there was no taking them back. Still, she could not look at him, and she tensed up, bracing herself for the inevitable snort that was sure to come at any moment.

“Have I been unkind?” Stannis said at length, his voice sounding half irritated, half something Sansa could not put her finger on. “Have I dishonoured you with serving wenches and whores at every turn?”

She kept staring at her hands. “No, Your Grace.”

“Do you not think I deserve the same consideration?”

Her head snapped up and her lips parted in shock, fear lancing through her. “I would never dishonour -”

“You were flirting with those knights last night for all to see,” Stannis snapped. “Don’t deny it.”

She shook her head, blood rushing so hotly to her cheeks that it stung. “We were only talking. Ser Arvin is a terrible flatterer, but he and Ser Jallen are knights in my uncle’s service. They were courteous, and charming, and full of good humour.” _And I stayed in plain sight the whole time. I was never alone with either one of them._

Stannis scowled, his eyes on her necklace. “You let one of them touch you.”

The silver around her neck was suddenly much heavier than it had been a moment ago. She did her best to breathe evenly. _There was nothing untoward about letting Arvin help me put on a necklace._ Why would Stannis even care?

_Oh._

Olenna Tyrell had been right. _He_ is _jealous._ But was he jealous in the way Olenna had indicated? A child hoarding his toys, lashing out at those who would play with them without his leave? She still remembered Sandor Clegane’s story of playing with his brother’s toy knight.

_’Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed.’_

_If he is jealous in such a monstrous way, why let me spend half the evening with his perceived rivals? Why not have them thrown out? He is king. He could have done whatever he wished._ Her heart was hammering in her chest as she thought more and more about it. Could it be possible that Mother and Davos were right? That Stannis _had_ taken a liking to her?

She searched Stannis’s face intently. He was still flushed and scowling, but though his eyes were guarded and angry, she could glimpse vulnerability there, too.

Her stomach clenched up. _He is not just jealous; he is hurt._

The knot of anger and resentment in her breast loosened.

“I’m sorry, Stannis,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking down at her clasped hands. Her grip had slackened, but they still looked oddly discoloured in places. Too white and too red. She looked up again and hoped her remorse was clear in her eyes. She truly was sorry to have upset him. She had not known it was within her power. “I will be more considerate in the future. Please forgive me, I meant no harm.”

Stannis was looking at her with narrowed eyes, but his scowl was gone.

Her heart was still beating too hard. She bit her lip, willing him to believe her.

His eyes went briefly to her mouth before focusing on a spot somewhere over her shoulder. He shifted in his chair. “Very well,” he said quickly.

Gathering all of her courage, Sansa unclasped her hands and reached for one of his. “The tiara you gave me is truly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Even if the gift came from Davos, Stannis must have at least agreed to it. And she had not forgotten the way his hands had lingered when he placed it on her head. Or the way he had looked at her. Those little moments were quickly taking on a new meaning, and she blushed as she thought of them.

Stannis stared at her small hand on top of his own on the desk. Slowly, as if he did not wish to startle her, he withdrew his hand. “It was not my idea,” he said, his voice rough. He was looking at her with his jaw clenched, as if he were daring her to accuse him of some misconduct. “Lord Davos thought it would… please you.”

A pang of hurt shot through her at having her suspicion confirmed, but she ignored it. “It did please me,” she said softly. “Thank you for listening to him.”

There was a tense moment of silence, full of unspoken words and promise. Sansa felt her skin prickle, but not unpleasantly.

“I - “ He paused, searching her face. She kept her expression relaxed and open. Inviting. “I chose the goldsmith and approved the design.” He looked down, focusing intently on lining two pens up side by side. But a moment later he had looked up again, watching for her reaction. 

_Truly?_ A dizzying sensation of elation erupted within her, making her feel lighter than air. Having the idea was one thing, but seeing to its execution in person? She would always have expected him to delegate such a task. _Perhaps there is some hope, after all._ She could have danced, but she made do with smiling. She was sure she had not smiled this widely - nor as joyfully - since she had left Winterfell.

Stannis stared at her, his expression almost taken aback. For several heartbeats he didn’t move, but then he shifted oddly and there was a faint _thunk_ under the desk, as if he’d hit his knee on something. He rose swiftly, as if he meant to charge off to battle. “You should go break your fast, my lady.”

“Please, it’s Sansa,” she reminded him, standing up slowly, unable to stop smiling. “And I meant what I said last night.”

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

“I’d enjoy breaking my fast with you once a week or so. I wish to get to know the man I am to marry.”

A sceptical look crossed his face, but he did not accuse her of flattering him. He cleared his throat and gestured a silent ‘after you’, following her to the door. 

Sansa stopped short, expecting him to open the door for her, but he just stood there, looking at her as if she were some puzzle, his brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. She was on the verge of saying something - though she did not know what - when he flexed his right hand and it shot forward, grabbing one of her own. His grip was not precisely gentle, but she could tell he was not trying to hurt her. Slowly, he tugged her hand upwards, pressing a short, dry kiss to the back of it. “Sansa,” he said in a low voice, still gripping her hand a little too tightly. His eyes had darkened, though he was clearly not angry. “I will expect you here next week, then.”

Her heart almost left her body.

When she walked past Ser Barristan, she was still smiling so brightly that his grave expression became surprised for a moment. But then his eyes softened and he gave her a small smile in return.

Hours later, the back of her hand was still tingling.

***

“Come in, come in,” Davos said, ushering her into his solar for her late morning lesson with a harried expression. “I’m sorry Marya and I had to leave dinner so soon after dessert last night, there was -” he paused in the middle of his sentence and looked at her. “But you look very happy.” He smiled. “Did you have a good evening?”

Sansa took her time sitting down and arranging her skirts before she answered. “I am happy,” she said, shaking her head no when Davos held up a pot of tea questioningly. “I had a very illuminating meeting with Stannis this morning.”

Davos put the teapot away and raised both brows. “Did you?”

She nodded. “He wasn’t pleased that I spent so much time with my uncle’s knights last night. He scolded me.”

“What?” Davos leaned back in his chair, his face falling. He brought a hand up to rub his forehead. “Really?”

“Yes. But we discussed it, and I think we have reached an understanding.”

Davos blinked rapidly, his hand falling away from his forehead to clutch the leather pouch around his neck. “Indeed?”

She nodded. “We are to break our fast together next week,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Well… I suppose I’m glad to hear it,” Davos said, looking both pleased and incredulous.

 _Are you surprised we managed to reach an agreement without you there to tell Stannis how to do it?_ She pursed her lips and held his gaze. “And before I forget, I would thank you for the gift.”

Davos looked down at a stack of papers on his desk, picked it up and began to rifle through it. “What gift would that be, my lady?”

“The tiara. Stannis told me it was your idea.”

The papers fell to the desk in a heap. “Did he?”

“Yes.” Davos looked at her for a long moment, seemingly unsure what to make of this. Sansa kept her face still, but eventually she softened. She was too happy to be very upset with him. “But he also told me that he chose the goldsmith personally, and approved the design,” she said, flushing with pleasure as she recalled it. “I - I think you were right to say that he has taken a liking to me.” Her hand tingled where Stannis had kissed it.

Grinning from ear to ear, Davos nodded. “I’m sure of it, my lady.”

“But… might I ask,” she hesitated, looking seriously at Davos now.

His smile faded and he looked attentively at her. “Yes?”

“Might I ask you to help Stannis a little less?” She bit her lip. “Only, I’d like to get to know him, and if you give him too much guidance in these matters I’m afraid I’ll be getting to know _you._ ”

Davos ducked his head and gave a bashful laugh. “Fair point, my lady.”

“You could still make some suggestions,” Sansa hurried to add, relieved that Davos did not seem upset with her. “You know him so well, and he listens to you.” She thought of the subtle way Davos had helped Stannis with the toast last night.

“Thank you,” Davos said, his eyes smiling.

There was a knock at the door.

Davos sighed. “Pardon the interruption, my lady.” In a louder voice he said, “enter!”

Uncle Brynden appeared in the doorway. He wore a concerned expression that melted away the moment he saw her. “There you are,” he said, striding over to Sansa’s seat and placing a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I’ve searched the Red Keep high and low.” He chuckled. “After what I saw last night I half expected to find you shackled in the dungeons.”

Sansa gave a short, surprised laugh. “Surely not.”

“You’re right,” Brynden said, nodding thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m more likely to find Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen there.” He did not remove his hand from her shoulder, though his touch was light.

She shook her head, blushing. “I’m sure they’re perfectly fine.”

“I should hope so,” Davos said, “my wife and I left dinner early to arrange suitable accommodations for the three of you.”

“Much obliged,” Brynden said, inclining his head at Davos. “But you can’t blame me for worrying, little Sansa,” he said, looking at her with a raised brow, “I don’t think His Grace heard a single word I said to him last night; he was so busy glaring daggers at my two companions.”

“Uncle,” Sansa said, still blushing hotly. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Did you have any important messages for His Grace?” Davos asked, his voice concerned. “I can see to it that he receives them properly.”

“I think my continued presence here will get the point across,” Brynden said, his eyes glinting.

“You intend a prolonged visit, ser?”

Brynden nodded at Davos, squeezing Sansa’s shoulder again. “From what I saw last night, Lady Sansa can do with having a member of her family close at hand.”

The smile left Davos’s eyes. “I assure you, her safety is the Crown’s first priority.”

Her uncle snorted. “I’m sure.” He looked at her, both eyebrows raised now. “What do you think, my dear? Is the king keeping you safe?” He looked at Davos. “Safe from enjoying herself with people her own age at dinners, perhaps.”

Sansa’s face was burning. “Uncle, please. I spoke to His Grace this morning. We had a misunderstanding, but it has all been settled between us.”

“Good.” Brynden squeezed her shoulder one last time before releasing her. “But I still think I will stay in the city for the time being.” He gave her a long, measured look. “Forget the dungeons. Someone must make sure His Grace is not tempted to keep you safe by shackling you to the royal bed.”

Somehow Sansa’s face managed to burn still hotter. “ _Uncle._ ”

“King Stannis is a man of honour,” Davos said, his voice sharp.

“Even the most honourable men lose their heads sometimes. Ned Stark himself brought a bastard home after Robert’s Rebellion.”

Davos rose from his seat. “I assure you. His Grace is as good as his word.”

Brynden took a step closer to Davos. “Sure of that, are you?” He looked pointedly at Sansa, and Davos followed his gaze, his brow furrowed. They both stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment. “Would you wait a year, if you were king?” her uncle asked, his voice rough.

Sansa stared down at her hands, wishing that she had not heard any of that. It did not seem a conversation fit for a lady’s ears.

Slowly, Davos sat back down, glaring up at Brynden the whole while. “Ser, I understand your concern, but you need not fear for Lady Sansa’s virtue.” He flushed and glanced apologetically at her. “Since you are a knight of considerable renown, you are of course welcome to stay here as long as you wish. And as Hand of the King, it would be in my power to offer you a seat on the small council for the duration of your stay, as an advisor to the Crown.”

“But?” Brynden crossed his arms.

“But I would ask you to refrain from speaking the way you just were about His Grace.” Davos looked suddenly tired. “He is not his brother, as I’m sure you recall.”

Brynden dropped his arms and nodded, his stance and his expression relaxing. “I do.”

Davos nodded, his face becoming more genial. “Now, Lady Sansa is here for a lesson. But I’m sure she would much rather spend her time with you. She already knows most of the things I attempt to teach her in any case.” He shot her an amused smile.

“That’s not true,” she protested. “But I would like to spend time with my uncle. Do you really think I could forego this week’s lesson?”

“Yes,” Davos said emphatically. “Go. Enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” she said, getting up from her seat and smiling at both Davos and Brynden in turn.

Brynden expressed a wish to see her apartments in the Maidenvault, and she was only too happy to show him. They shared the midday meal there, and he delighted her with stories from the days of her mother’s youth in Riverrun. He had a good voice for storytelling, and did just the right amount of embellishing.

“You have made this place almost as beautiful as you are, little Sansa,” Brynden said, after they had finished their meal and settled in her solar with drinks. He held a cup of strong red wine in one hand, swirling it gently around.

“Thank you,” she said, having opted for tea, herself.

“I’m sorry if I was... indelicate earlier,” Brynden said, his smoky voice turning gentle. “But the situation here is already more precarious than your mother suspected it would be.”

Sansa shook her head. “I think you must be mistaken, Uncle. I believe Stannis - I mean His Grace - has taken a liking to me, but he has not done anything he ought not have.”

Brynden set his cup down sharply. “A liking?” He stared at her in disbelief. “Did you not see the way he was looking at you last night? The way he looked at Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen?”

She examined her teacup. It was a very fine cup of white porcelain, with hand-painted blue flowers. “I saw that he was angry, but I told you the truth earlier. We spoke this morning and settled it. He is not angry with me anymore.” _And I am not angry with him._

Her uncle touched her chin, gently prompting her to look at him. He searched her face seriously, but did not appear to be finding whatever it was that he was looking for. “My dear,” he said slowly, “are you truly as innocent as all this?”

She flushed. “I understood what you and Lord Davos spoke of,” she said, jerking her chin out of his grip. “I am not simple.”

Brynden got down from the bench where they were sitting and knelt on the floor in front of her, grasping both of her shoulders. “That is not what I mean, though I’m glad to hear you understand at least that much.” He paused, still searching her eyes in something akin to desperation.

“What do you mean, then?” Her stomach had tightened up uncomfortably, and she could not take a proper breath.

He sighed and hung his head. “I do not have the words to explain it to you, sweetling. But I would have you know that the king has done more than take a liking to you.”

Sansa’s heart missed a beat. _Can that be?_ Nothing she had seen supported her uncle’s theory. but she had not been looking very closely at Stannis last night. Perhaps Uncle Brynden had seen something she had not, though she found it hard to believe. Brynden had not been in King’s Landing for the past weeks. He hadn’t observed every conversation she’d had with Stannis. _He cannot know more about this than I do. Not after watching Stannis for a mere hour._

With another heavy sigh, Brynden got up and took his seat on the bench again. “Cat said that I was needed, but I did not realise how much.”

“When did you speak to Mother?”

“She rode ahead of your father and came to see me in Riverrun. Your brother and his betrothed came along with her.”

Her heart jumped at the mention of them. “And they were well?”

“Yes, yes.” He smiled. “Hale and hearty.”

Sansa looked at her teacup, watching the steam rise up. “Why did Mother think you were needed here?”

“Are you not happy to see me?” Brynden asked, still smiling.

She could not resist smiling back. “Of course I am.”

“Well, that was part of the reason,” he said stroking her cheek. “Your mother wishes for your happiness.” He reached for his cup of wine and took a thoughtful sip. “But she also wishes the king to be aware that you are not alone and friendless.” He chuckled. “A blessing and a curse the way His Grace sees it, I’m sure.”

Sansa frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Brynden shook his head. “It’s nothing. But I wonder if old Ned knew what he was doing…” he trailed off, swirling his wine and looking amused. “This situation is surely a worse form of torment for His Grace than an outright refusal would have been.” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “But then, you northerners can be inventively cruel.”

Sansa stared at her uncle. “How much wine have you had today?”

This time, Brynden’s bark of laughter was full of humour. “Not enough, little Sansa. Not enough.”

***

“He really kissed you?” Jeyne repeated for the third time, blinking owlishly at Sansa. They were walking in the godswood in the feeble light of the afternoon sun, arms linked, having already visited the sept to light a candle for Lady Tully and pray to the Mother for her recovery. Ser Gerald had been banished to walk far behind them, though he had agreed to do so with very poor grace.

“Just on the hand,” Sansa said, her sable cloak suddenly much too hot. There was a thin layer of snow on the ground however, so she couldn’t blame the weather.

A feverish light was shining in Jeyne’s eyes. “That’s something to build on, Sansa!” She grinned and squeezed her arm. “And you said he was jealous that you were talking with those knights?”

“I think so. Though I can’t be certain.” _Uncle Brynden seemed very certain, though._ Sansa still did not know what to make of her conversation with Brynden, but his arrival had closed a wound in her heart that she had not realised she had been carrying.

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “You’re too modest.”

“What do you think I should do now?” Sansa asked, hoping that Jeyne’s experience with Devan might be of some help. “To encourage him, I mean?”

“You should give him a gift!” Jeyne said, her tone excited and her eyes still bright. “Something intimate, but not scandalous. Perhaps an embroidered handkerchief? A lock of your hair?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “he’ll think it’s stupid.” _He doesn’t need a favour to tie about his lance._ “And please don’t give me more ideas. I should think of a suitable gift on my own.” She did not want to give Stannis a gift that was not truly from her. Jeyne nodded in understanding.

They walked in silence for a little while, snow crunching beneath their feet.

“It couldn’t hurt to ask the princess for advice, surely?” Jeyne suggested at length, glancing at Sansa with an uncertain expression.

“Maybe,” Sansa said, thinking it over. Shireen might know if there was anything Stannis needed. She thought he would probably appreciate practical gifts more than anything sentimental.

A gust of wind blew the hoods of their cloaks off their heads, and the two of them laughed despite the cold.

“We should get inside,” Jeyne said. “Will you search for the princess straight away, or do you think you might have time to help me work on my maiden cloak?”

“I’m having dinner with Shireen and her ladies. I will talk to her then,” Sansa said. It had been far too long since she’d done anything to help Jeyne with her wedding preparations. She had wanted to, but every time she had tried to make herself offer assistance, it had been as if a giant had taken a seat on her chest, crushing her. Now it seemed the easiest thing in the world. “Did the blue thread you ordered arrive yet?”

“Oh, yes,” Jeyne nodded eagerly, “and I’ve started on the circle pattern.”

“I can’t wait to see it!”

***

“Truly?” Shireen asked, her eyes going impossibly wide, her face alive with emotion.

Sansa nodded, heat rushing to her cheeks. She had just explained that she’d spoken to Stannis, and that the misunderstanding from last night had all been straightened out. Dinner was long since over, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa were all gone, and she and the princess were sitting in Shireen’s private chambers in the royal apartments, side by side on a bench made comfortable with brightly coloured pillows. 

“I’m - I’m glad,” Shireen said, looking down. “I thought I’d ruined everything by giving that dinner.” There were tears in her voice.

All the air left Sansa in a great gusty breath, and she grabbed Shireen’s hands and held them tightly. “ _No,_ ” she said. “You could never ruin anything. The dinner was perfect in every way.”

Shireen shook her head. “He looked so angry. _You_ looked so angry.”

Sansa’s lips parted, but no words came out. _I looked angry?_ She hadn’t meant to let it show.

“But you’re not angry anymore? Everything is… as it ought to be?” The hope in Shireen’s eyes sent a pang through Sansa’s innards that was sharp as a needle.

Sansa wasn’t certain everything was as it ought to be. _Not yet, at least._ But she had hope for the future. Even though Brynden’s strange comments had muddled the uncomplicated joy she had felt after her conversation with Stannis, she was certain her relationship with Stannis was improving. She took a deep breath. “I want to give your father a gift,” she said, thinking of the kiss he’d pressed to her hand, and pushing Brynden from her mind.

Shireen bit her lip. “I don’t think he likes gifts.”

Sansa frowned. “I thought, maybe something he could use...?”

“Whenever he needs anything, he just orders it delivered or has it done,” Shireen said, shrugging. “He always called my mother frivolous when she gave him things. And he grinds his teeth and says worse things when his bannermen send him destriers, or treasure, or spices from Essos.”

“Does he call you frivolous when you give him things?” Sansa asked, her stomach churning at the thought that Stannis might possibly have done that.

Shireen looked down. “No…”

Relief flooded through her.

When Shireen looked back up there was a crease between her eyebrows. “But that’s because I usually don’t give him things.”

Sansa’s stomach sank. “Jeyne said gifts were the surest way to encourage him,” she said, half to herself.

“You wish to encourage him?” Shireen’s eyes lit up.

“Of course,” Sansa said, giving Shireen a confused look, “he’s my betrothed. It is my duty to encourage his affections.” _Though Uncle Brynden doesn’t seem to think he needs any encouragement._

“Oh.” The light had gone out of Shireen’s eyes as if a candle had been snuffed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Shireen’s cheeks had gone pink.

Sansa was still clutching her hand, and she squeezed it now. “Please tell me?”

“I thought -” Shireen glanced at her quickly, looking skittish, like a rabbit, or a fawn. “I thought you might want to encourage him because you liked him.”

Sansa blushed and let go of Shireen’s hand to brush out a wrinkle in her blue silk skirts. “I don’t know him well enough to know if I like him yet,” she said, unable to meet Shireen’s eyes.

“But you’d like to?” Shireen asked, her voice small. “Know him, I mean?”

Sansa’s heart was beating clumsily in her chest now, as if it were too big or her chest too small. “Yes of course. He’s to be my husband,” she said, the words sounding weak as she said them. 

There was a long silence, broken only by the faint sound of the Narrow Sea drifting in through the window. It was snowing again, and the sky was oddly pink even though the sun had set hours ago.

“I wish I knew him.” Shireen eventually said, her voice still small.

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply put her arms around Shireen and hugged her.


	12. Fights

In the week leading up to her first breakfast with Stannis, Sansa decided to heed Shireen’s advice and abandon Jeyne’s idea of giving him a gift. Instead she started paying attention. It wasn’t that she hadn’t paid any attention to him before, but she hadn’t studied him; she hadn’t gone out of her way to seek him out or learn his routine.

She was surprised by what she learnt.

The first time she forced herself to leave the warmth of her bed to rise at the same abhorrent hour as the king - all so that she might make an appearance in the training yard and watch as Stannis first spoke to his master-at-arms, and then ran through drill after drill with tourney swords or even live steel, mouth set in a hard line, puffs of steam rising from his nostrils into the frigid air - Sansa thought she would freeze to death. She distracted herself from the cold by examining the knights and men-at-arms who were also present. She tried to put a name to all the different faces, and was interested to see Ser Gerald running drills close to the king. He usually only guarded her after the midday meal, but she had never really considered what he might be doing in his time away from her. When he noticed her looking at him from her shady spot on the battlements, he raised a brow and gave a mocking little wave. She pursed her lips, but waved politely back.

Ser Gerald turned to say something to Stannis, and Sansa’s heart jumped to her throat. She was not ready for Stannis to see her. Hurriedly she backed away, turning to head back inside.

The next morning, waking up was even harder. She debated just staying in her warm, soft bed. Ser Gerald had not said anything when he had guarded her yesterday - only smirked at her much more than he usually did - but she was sure he must have told Stannis about her hiding place on the battlements. _Will he be looking for me?_ Her heart pounded even though she was just lying still. Did she want Stannis to look for her?

Somehow, with the help of two maids, she dragged herself out of bed. Dressing even more warmly than she had yesterday, she made herself go to the battlements again, acutely aware of every beat of her heart. To her great relief, Ser Gerald was not in the training yard when she arrived, though Stannis seemed like he had already been there for some time. He was running his drills next to Ser Allard and Devan, and had not so much as glanced up at the battlements in the minutes since she had found her little hiding place. Her heart calmed, and she leaned as close as she dared, watching the three familiar men practise in tandem.

“You’re here!” Jeyne’s familiar voice said, coming up on Sansa’s right. “I never thought I’d see you awake at this hour.”

“I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about,” Sansa said, shooting Jeyne a quick smile.

Jeyne took a step closer, looking over at Devan with a love-struck expression. “Aren’t they handsome like this?” She gave a happy sigh. “I don’t think I will ever tire of watching him train.”

“You weren’t here yesterday morning,” Sansa pointed out. She followed Jeyne’s gaze and watched first Devan, and then Stannis perform a swift series of sword slashes through the air. It was all very… athletic, she supposed, tilting her head to the side.

“I like sleeping, too,” Jeyne said with a shrug. “Oh, look, look!” She pointed at Ser Allard. He was clearly preparing to spar with someone tall and dark-skinned. _Ser Jallen?_ At the same time, Stannis was facing Ser Gordon.

The sparring matches were quick and fierce, over almost before Sansa managed to comprehend everything that had happened. But one thing was clear: Stannis moved with as much strength and speed as the Ser Allard, Ser Jallen, and Ser Gordon. And they were all closer to Sansa’s age than his.

Devan had been defeated by a sparring partner Sansa did not recognise, but Jeyne did not seem dismayed by this. “He is happier when he wins,” she admitted, blushing, “but when he collects a few bruises I have an excuse to comfort him, don’t I?”

On the third morning Jeyne was nowhere to be seen, and Sansa let her eyes linger for longer on Stannis than she might have if her friend had been there. She found herself thinking - not for the first time, thanks to Lady Margaery - that the king really was an uncommonly tall man, with uncommonly broad shoulders. He was easily one of the more imposing men on the training field, even though his armour was plain.

On the fourth morning, Ser Gerald was back. At first she thought he had not seen her, so she decided it was safe to stay, but just before Stannis was meant to spar with a young knight Sansa did not know, Ser Gerald elbowed him and pointed at her, looking obnoxiously amused. 

Stannis turned to stare right at her, his expression sharp. 

Sansa’s body - half ready to flee - froze solid under his gaze. And yet she did not feel cold. Her heart seemed determined to send all of her blood rushing to her face, pumping wildly.

When Stannis finally looked away and approached his sparring partner, she sucked in a loud breath through her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. Should she leave? She opened her eyes to see what was happening.

Stannis accepted a tourney sword from Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms, weighing it in his hand as he faced the unknown knight. The knight had a tourney sword too, but neither man held a shield.

Feeling had returned to her legs, and she was sure she’d be able to move if she so desired, but she made herself stay. She did not want Stannis to think he’d scared her away, and she wanted to watch the sparring match. Her hands went to the rough stone of the battlements, and she leaned in as close as she could.

Stannis kept glancing at her as he and the knight fell into battle stances. She bit her lip, clutching the stone more tightly. The knight moved first, swinging his sword and charging forth. Stannis stepped to the side, avoiding the attack neatly. He jabbed his own sword at the knight, but the knight blocked it. They circled one another. A few more jabs, a few more misses. Stannis kept glancing at her. The knight seemed to notice this, and the next time Stannis was distracted, he landed a sharp blow to the king’s side. 

After that Stannis scowled and did not look at her again until the knight was on the ground, bruised and moaning. She made a show of applauding, though she could not help feeling sorry for the battered knight.

Stannis handed the tourney sword to Devan and wiped sweat off his brow with an impatient swipe of his forearm. He looked at her and gave her an unmistakable signal. _Get down here._

Her stomach flipped over, but she did as she was told.

“Good morning,” she said, bobbing a polite curtsey and making a point of not looking at Ser Gerald. He was standing next to Ser Allard looking far too pleased with himself. With Stannis in front of her, it was not difficult to ignore everyone else, however. Clad in armour, towering over her, he looked even more imposing than he had from a distance. And he was very sweaty. Sansa was surprised to find that she did not mislike it. He looked more alive than she had ever seen him look, his skin flushed with exercise, his eyes bright.

“Good morning,” Stannis said, closing his mouth sharply after the words came out, almost as if he wanted to prevent any more from escaping.

Sansa waited patiently, watching him watch her. He must have asked her here for a reason.

“My lady,” Stannis paused. “What were you doing up there?” His tone was sharp, his brow was furrowed, and yet Sansa got the sense that he was not as much irritated as he was puzzled.

Aside from Devan, Ser Allard, and Ser Gerald, there were several men-at-arms and other knights all around them, and some of them were passing by with curious looks on their faces. Sansa wished they weren’t there so that she might remind Stannis to use her given name. She had liked the way he’d said it in his solar, right before he’d kissed her hand. Her heart jumped at the memory.

“I wanted to see the training field,” Sansa said, noting that his expression was most certainly puzzled now. “I hope I am not unwelcome?”

He frowned and shook his head, but said nothing.

“You’re very skilled with a sword, my king,” she said, her cheeks heating up.

Behind Stannis, Ser Gerald gave a strangled laugh that Sansa ignored.

Stannis blinked once before crossing his arms and grimacing. “Were I slow and sloppy this flock of geese would still find a way to let me win.” He scowled over his shoulder and muttered, “the Others take them.”

“They cannot risk injuring their king,” Sansa said, taking a step closer to Stannis and boldly touching his arm. He looked at her hand and then her face, his eyebrows knitting together. She let her hand fall away, still blushing.

He looked at her for a moment, his jaw working. “They do me no favours,” he said, his tone sullen. “Before long I _will_ grow slow and sloppy, only I won’t know it until an enemy decides to enlighten me.”

Sansa almost spoke but hesitated, not certain if it was her place to advise the king on such matters.

“What is it?” Stannis said, sharp eyes honing in on her indecision. “Speak.”

“My father hired a water dancer from Braavos to train my si- to train some of his men.” Sansa didn’t think Stannis would approve of a highborn girl like Arya learning to fight with swords.

“I remember him,” Stannis said, nodding slowly. “Syrio Forel. He came to Dragonstone.”

Sansa nodded back. “Perhaps His Grace might consider hiring someone like him.”

Stannis looked thoughtful for a few silent beats, but did not get a chance to reply.

“Or perhaps the king might spar with someone with a tad more experience than these green little boys,” her uncle’s smoky voice said, floating over from a short distance behind her.

The thoughtful look was wiped away, and Stannis clenched his jaw tightly shut. “Ser Brynden,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Your Grace,” her uncle said, sounding amused. “What say you? Are you up for a real challenge?” He walked up to stand beside her.

“Certainly,” Stannis said, his voice clipped. “But not today. I have other matters to attend to.” He looked at her. “I must leave you now, my lady.” His tone was abrupt, and his face was pinched, but she was almost sure that this was not due to her. A wave of annoyance with her uncle passed through her, and for the first time since his arrival in King’s Landing, she wished him gone.

“Have a good day, Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsey, and tried to smile at Stannis as if Uncle Brynden were not standing next to her.

He nodded once, eyes lingering on her lips for only a second before he shot her uncle an irritated glance, turned around, and stalked off. Devan and Ser Allard followed hurriedly after him, but Ser Gerald stayed along with his irritating smirk.

“Is this any place for a young lady?” Uncle Brynden asked lightly once the king was gone.

“I was up on the battlements, Uncle,” Sansa said, facing her uncle and doing her best not to sound resentful. “I’m only down here because His Grace wanted a word. I’ve been perfectly safe.” 

“He wanted a word, did he?” Brynden raised a brow.

Wishing that she did not blush so easily, Sansa nodded.

“Did he ask you to come to the battlements?”

“No, Uncle. I wanted to learn more about how the men train. Mother said a queen should know everything that goes on in the Red Keep.”

Brynden pursed his lips, his eyes amused. “Oh, aye?”

Sansa lifted her chin. “Yes.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Very well, very well.”

Sansa had known this before she had started to watch Stannis, but in the afternoons he would usually sit on the Iron Throne and listen to smallfolk, knights, and lords alike air their grievances and ask for his favour or his judgement. This week, she made a point of attending each day. Stannis only had Davos take his place once. Sansa knew it was because there had been news from the Wall; she’d been taking her lesson with Maester Gormon when the raven arrived, but she had not been allowed to read the letter.

Sansa had sometimes watched her father sit on the Iron Throne when he’d been King Robert’s Hand, and judge the matters brought before him by the petitioners. It had never seemed terribly interesting, and standing so still had been tiresome. Perhaps it was because she was older, but it did not seem so boring and tiresome now. It was fascinating to watch Stannis and his council listen to his subjects, learn of the troubles the petitioners were facing, and observe how justly Stannis ruled. Sometimes he was much harsher than Sansa thought was necessary, but he was never unreasonable or cruel. 

Now and then Sansa would try to guess the state of the king’s mind based on the depth of his scowl. He had several different scowls, she had realised. There was one that he wore when he was impatient, one when he was displeased, and one when he was simply thinking. She was sure there were more, but it would take her much longer than a week to figure them all out.

He always nodded to acknowledge her presence when she took her place among the highest ranking ladies at court, and she would smile and nod back. At first his nods were curt and impatient, but on the day when he’d spoken to her in the training yard, he nodded more slowly, his gaze lingering on her face for long enough to make her heart lodge itself in her throat.

Aside from the occasional nod or the turn of his head, Sannis always sat very still on the Iron Throne. Sansa thought it was almost as if he were just another steel blade, melted into place. She knew why he did it; the Iron Throne was known to injure those who sat upon it if they did not have a care. Her father used to remark it was the most uncomfortable seat he’d ever been forced to make use of, and when he was no longer Hand, she’d heard him say that he prayed he’d never have cause to sit upon it again.

If Stannis felt any discomfort, his face did not betray it. Unless that was what one of his scowls meant.

Of course, she did not spend all her time watching Stannis go about his day. She had her own duties and interests to attend to. She spent a great deal of time with the royal steward, Jeyne, or with Shireen and her ladies. She tried to visit the sept and the godswood regularly, and she had her daily lessons with the members of the small council. Uncle Brynden frequently joined her for meals, and he was so kind to her that she soon forgot her annoyance with him.

Despite her own busy schedule, Sansa was sure she knew the king’s routine by heart by the end of the week.

She did not go to the training yard the morning she was due to meet Stannis for their first breakfast. She got up almost as early, but rather than freeze on the battlements, she bathed in hot water infused with fragrant oils, and had her maid help her wash her hair. She donned the finest gown she could reasonably wear for such an occasion - cream silks embroidered with silver thread - and wished she had her mother’s pearls. They would match the gown much better than her simple, silver pendant.

Followed by a Stark household guard, Sansa faced Ser Barristan outside the king’s solar once more.

“My lady,” Ser Barristan inclined his head. “How beautiful you look.” He smiled at her in his usual, fatherly way. “His Grace instructed me to admit you as soon as you arrived.” It was a statement, but his expression asked whether she was ready for him to open the door.

She took a deep breath and nodded at him, returning his smile. “Thank you, ser.”

Stannis stood up as soon as Sansa entered the solar. He wore a tense expression, and the breakfast spread on the table in front of him looked completely untouched. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and the curtains had been thrown open to tempt what little daylight there was inside.

When she made to close the door behind her, Stannis took a step forward with an odd, pained expression. “Leave it open,” he said quickly. He gestured at a chair. “Sit.”

Slowly, watching his odd expression, Sansa walked over to the breakfast table and sat. Stannis limped slightly when he took the few steps necessary to help her with her chair, his pained expression becoming a grimace.

“You’re hurt,” she said, surprised by how fiercely her stomach clenched up at the realisation.

“It’s nothing,” Stannis said, sitting down across from her. His expression had turned sullen.

“What happened?”

Glowering at his empty plate, Stannis said nothing. Sansa waited, ignoring the tempting scents of black tea, fresh bread, seasoned eggs, and apricot jam that were wafting over to her.

“It is nothing serious,” Stannis eventually said. “A minor injury on the training field. You should eat something.”

Sansa had watched him train the previous morning, and knew it had not happened then. She continued to ignore the food. “Was it Ser Gerald?” she asked, irritation flaring up. “I think he cheats when he spars. When Devan fought him yesterday, I’m sure I saw him kick -”

“It was your great-uncle.” Stannis was now glaring at his empty plate.

“Oh.” Sansa had not thought Uncle Brynden had truly meant to fight the king, even though they had spoken of it the other day. “He should not have injured you.”

“I believe I made him regret it,” Stannis said, grim satisfaction in his tone.

Her heart sank. “Is he... well?”

“He’s fine,” Stannis said irritably. “We’re both fine. Eat your breakfast.”

Sansa served herself some of the eggs, fluffy and yellow, still steaming hot and fragrant with herbs. They could not have been more tempting, and yet her stomach turned at the idea of eating them. “I hope my uncle did not say anything impolite,” she said in a low voice, thinking of how he had behaved a week ago with Lord Davos. The idea of Brynden having said anything about dungeons or _royal beds_ directly to the king drained the blood from her face. _And if he said anything he ought not have, can he really be fine?_ She had seen Stannis leave men in their prime badly bruised, and her uncle was at least twenty years his senior. A seasoned warrior, true, but reflexes slowed with age...

Stannis snorted. “Impolite is hardly the word to describe what he said.” A dull flush was spreading up from his neck to his face, and he was concentrating so fiercely on pouring himself a cup of tea that he did not meet her eyes.

“Stannis, I’m sorry if my uncle insulted you,” Sansa said, clasping her hands tightly in her lap and staring down at them. “I don’t understand why, but I believe he has misunderstood... something.” She glanced quickly at Stannis, but he was now drinking his tea with just as much focus as he had poured it. “He thinks I need to be protected from you, but I know that is not the case.” She heard the teacup clatter against its saucer and chanced another glance up. Stannis was finally looking at her, his eyes narrowed. “I know you would not harm me,” she finished softly, her heart pounding.

“I have sworn it,” Stannis said at once, his gaze so fierce that she sucked in an involuntary breath. “I am a man of my word.” There was steely determination in his voice, and his body was wound tighter than a bowstring.

“I know,” she said simply, though her heart was still racing.

For a quiet moment he considered her, and she him. She noticed that he must have shaved very recently, for his cheek appeared almost as smooth as Devan’s.

Stannis visibly unclenched. “Your eggs are getting cold,” he muttered, picking his teacup back up.

Her appetite returned all at once, and for a while they ate in silence. But once her hunger had been sated, she knew she could not afford to waste more time. Stannis never lingered over breakfast overlong.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, about his family, his childhood, his opinions and his feelings, but she had decided several days ago to start small.

“I have been watching you this past week,” she began, gathering her courage as she spoke.

“So I noticed.” A small frown tugged at the corners of his lips.

“- and I believe the Seven Kingdoms have never found themselves ruled by a more diligent king,” she continued as if he had not spoken, keeping the words she had rehearsed firmly in her mind. “But I did not see what it is you enjoy doing when you are not working.”

He stared at her.

“Surely you cannot always be working,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Do you like hawking?”

A shadow passed over his face. “No.”

She bit her lip. “Cyvasse?” The game had only recently become popular in King’s Landing, but she had seen a board in Lord Andrew’s solar. Stannis often spent hours with the master of law; perhaps they played sometimes?

Stannis leaned back in his chair. “Not as frivolous a game as many others, but too time consuming for my taste.”

“But you know the rules?” she asked, unable to contain a smile. “Could you teach me?”

He blinked a few times. “Teach you?”

A sudden idea struck her, and she fought to keep her expression and her tone from betraying the excitement bubbling up within her. “Perhaps you could teach both me and Princess Shireen? We’re ever so eager to learn.” It was true. Shireen had expressed an interest in the game only last week, and according to Carellen, Ser Jallen was disappointed there were only a few people who knew how to play at court. _Everyone_ played cyvasse in Dorne.

Stannis shifted in his chair and frowned. “I’m sure a tutor could be hired to teach you both.”

 _No._ A tutor would not do at all. The idea was to give herself and the princess more time with Stannis. She had not forgotten Shireen’s wish to know her father better. Resisting the urge to bite her lip, she quickly considered how best to persuade Stannis. Three options came to mind. First, she could present a logical argument. But could she do that without revealing Shireen’s feelings? _No._ Her second option was flattery. But Stannis hated flattery, so that only left the third option: pleading.

Sansa glanced at Stannis, considering him. He was watching her expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. But though he was frowning, she did not think he looked very cross.

 _If he truly has taken a liking to me, there is a small chance, isn’t there?_ She met his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking of Shireen’s small voice a week ago. _I have to try._ “Hiring a tutor would be most generous,” she began, glancing down at the crumbs on her plate and then back at his sharp gaze. “But I’d very much like to learn from you as well. And I’m sure the princess would, too.” She tilted her head to the side. “Please?”

His eyebrows rose briefly, but then he looked up at the ceiling and sighed, his surprise turning to a very familiar kind of long-suffering disgruntlement. Robb and Jon had often worn identical expressions when Sansa cajoled them into playing come-into-my-castle rather than their preferred game of monsters-and-maidens as children. “I will consider it.”

For a moment she was stunned that it had been so easy, but then warmth flooded her breast and she smiled brightly. She opened her mouth to thank him, but didn’t get a word out before Stannis rose to his feet. 

“I have work to do.”

Understanding the dismissal, she got up as gracefully as she could. He did not escort her to the door as he had last week, nor did he kiss her hand. But his gaze lingered on her retreating figure like a touch; a touch she swore she could still feel long after she was out of his line of sight.

***

“Cyvasse lessons?” Uncle Brynden said, shaking his head at her in disbelief. He had a painful-looking black eye, but hardly seemed aware of it. He was sitting in a carved chair, his legs propped up on a nearby table. Had they been in Sansa’s apartments she would have scolded him for putting his dirty boots on the furniture, but as they were in his, she made do with pursing her lips.

“He said he would consider it,” Sansa said, walking closer to her uncle and gently touching the swollen skin around his eye. “Are you certain you do not wish to see Maester Gormon?”

“For this?” Brynden batted her hand away and snorted. “This is nothing.”

“I wish you had not sparred with His Grace,” she said, backing away and frowning at him.

“The man needed a good thrashing.” Brynden looked unconcerned by her frown. “He admitted it himself; his men always let him win.” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “We can’t have our king going soft, can we?”

Sansa shook her head. If there was a single soft thing about Stannis Baratheon, she had yet to see it. “What did you say to him, Uncle?”

Brynden smiled. “Nothing you need worry yourself over, my dear.”

She crossed her arms. “How can I not worry? In less than a year I am to marry Stannis, and you are fighting him. Are we not all on the same side?” Her throat almost closed up, but she made herself continue. “What is it about this betrothal that concerns you so?”

Something in her uncle’s gaze softened. “Of course we’re on the same side,” he said, his voice soothing. “Our fight was nothing serious. We both had points to make, that’s all.” 

“Please,” she said, the word sharper on her tongue than she intended. “You are my only family here. I know the Tully words as well as you do. Please don’t lie to me.”

Brynden took his feet off the table and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Every line on his weathered face stood out in sharp relief, and his laughing eyes had become serious. “Stannis Baratheon is not an easy man to understand,” he said, his tone matching his expression. “But there are certain things no man can hide, and his eyes betray him when it comes to you.”

She looked down at her feet for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. “I don’t believe he would harm me. Truly. He has sworn to keep me safe, Uncle.”

Her uncle stroked his chin, considering her. “... A week ago I might have argued with you, little Sansa.” His hand went from his chin to the swollen area around his eye. He winced and dropped the hand. “And while I think you’re right to believe this, I would still advise you to be cautious in his presence.” He was still watching her with deep concern. “All men have a breaking point, my dear. Even ones that appear to have an iron grip on themselves.”

“Perhaps we should be helping him, then? Rather than fighting.” She gave him a pointed look.

The serious expression melted away, and Brynden’s eyes glinted with amusement once more. “Did he not tell you? He’s made me the Red Keep’s new master-at-arms.”

“Truly?” She opened and closed her mouth. _I do not understand Stannis at all._ “What about Ser Aron?”

Brynden shrugged.

She reminded herself to speak to the royal steward about it. Ser Aron would need to be compensated accordingly if he was being removed from his post without just cause. “I’m glad to hear that, Uncle,” she said. It was a relief. If Stannis had rewarded Brynden with such a position, he could not be very angry about the fight. “Though I would prefer it if you both made your points without injuring one another in the future.”

A slow smile spread over his face. “Protective of him, are we?”

She dropped her arms, and fought the blush rising to her cheeks. “He is my betrothed.”

Brynden held his hands up in surrender, but there was a teasing smirk on his face. “Aye. I will endeavour to keep him in one piece, my queen.”

Her stomach did a little somersault at the address, but she kept her face still. “Thank you.”


	13. The King's Good Bride

Sansa never would have believed it, but life in King’s Landing had become almost… peaceful. Weeks flew by as she applied herself to her lessons, nurtured her friendships with Shireen and her ladies, helped Jeyne with her wedding preparations, and slowly but surely got to know the man she was to marry. Their breakfasts had been difficult at first - even when Sansa rehearsed questions to ask, Stannis did not always oblige her with more than two words in lieu of answers - but it was getting easier to find topics of conversation they could both contribute to. They had yet to discuss anything truly personal, but Sansa hoped it would happen naturally now that they had grown more comfortable with one another. They’d have more opportunities once their cyvasse lessons could finally begin.

And yet, Sansa feared the peace she was experiencing was an illusion, and that the war in the north would soon start to touch her life more directly. The last letter she received from her mother had been short and suspiciously uninformative, and the tension Sansa read between the lines was palpable. Father was fighting at the Wall, and there seemed to be no end in sight, even with all the men Stannis had sent.

Again and again, Davos took the king’s place on the Iron Throne due to lengthy meetings that were usually prompted by messages from the Wall.

The long hours of winter darkness did nothing to assuage the gloom that had begun to permeate the air, and despite her best efforts to put it all aside, Sansa was starting to be plagued by the same dread that had haunted her those first weeks of her stay on Dragonstone. They did not speak of it, but occasionally she and Shireen would catch each other’s eyes, and Sansa would grow certain that she was not alone in feeling the way she did. 

Sansa’s fears were confirmed on a dreary, sleet-filled day, just two weeks before Jeyne’s wedding was to take place. 

Stannis himself sat on the Iron Throne that day, hearing petitioners, and Sansa stood in her usual place and observed.

A bedraggled petitioner stepped forth, muddy and soaked, his clothes in tatters, his limbs trembling noticeably. He kept his right hand out of sight, however, covered by his ragged clothing.

“M’lord,” the man said, looking helplessly from Stannis to the council table, “please -”

“You should address His Grace as ‘Your Grace’,” Davos interjected kindly from the council table. He’d already had to remind several other petitioners only that day, but he never seemed to lose his patience for it.

The man nodded. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice a little stronger now, “my name is Erac. I had a farm in the Lonely Hills and I have served House Umber faithfully all my life.”

Stannis glanced at her, almost as if he wanted her to confirm what the man was saying. Sansa had no way of knowing whether it was true - she had never seen the man before - but his accent was northern, and he had the look of the north about him, so she gave Stannis a small nod. Apparently satisfied, he turned his head to look at Erac again.

“I am no summer child, m’lo - Your Grace, but I have never seen a winter like this. All my animals are dead. They died a long time ago, truth be told. I moved myself, my wife and my children to the winter town, but I wasn’t allowed to stay. I was sent to the Wall.”

The members of the council looked at one another: dark, meaningful glances. The court started to murmur, and though Sansa couldn’t make much of anything out, she did catch Carellen asking Alynna why the man wasn’t wearing black clothing, then.

“I wasn’t asked to take the black, mind,” Erac said, raising his voice so that he might be clearly heard, “only to help the men of the Night’s Watch secure the Wall.” He looked away from the king and the council to glance at the gathered courtiers. “There’s all sorts at the Wall now, helpin’.”

“I know as much,” Stannis said, his voice sounding very loud since the Great Hall went completely silent as soon as he opened his mouth. “I sent thousands of men to reinforce the Wall at Lord Stark’s behest.”

“Aye,” Erac said, nodding, “there’s them, there’s the Night’s Watch, and there’s us - the northmen - and then there’s the wildlings.”

 _Wildlings?_ Sansa’s heart jolted. _That can’t be true._

The court erupted into whispers again, and some were not bothering to whisper. Carellen and Alynna both gasped and covered their mouths.

Stannis did not seem perturbed, however. “Several wildlings have requested clemency in return for their work securing the Wall against more dangerous foes. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and Lord Stark have taken responsibility for these men, and assure me that they pose no threat.”

The tone of her mother’s letters was beginning to make a lot more sense.

Erac was still nodding. “The wildlings ain’t the worst of it,” he agreed, shuddering. A hush came over the Great Hall as many exchanged worried glances. Carellen and Alynna both looked at Sansa with large eyes, and Sansa tried to appear stoic and unconcerned while every horrible story Old Nan had ever told her flashed through her mind, draining the blood from her face and closing her throat up.

“Why are you here?” Stannis asked, his impatient scowl making an appearance.

“I was injured,” Erac said, pulling his right hand out from beneath the tatters that had covered it until then. There was only a stump and Sansa’s stomach squirmed at the sight. “Asked to be allowed to leave seeing as I wasn’t much use like this. Lord Stark himself thanked me for my service and suggested I take the wife and the children south. As far south as I could manage.”

“I know of men with injuries more severe, able to serve at the Wall,” Stannis said flatly. “Mine own smith, Donal Noye, lost an arm, but he took the black and made himself useful.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Erac said, blanching, “but I haven’t the skills of a smith.”

“What might we help you with, then?” Lord Davos asked kindly.

“We were robbed,” Erac said, pain in his voice and his eyes, “they killed my wife and my son. Beat me. Left me for dead. My little daughter managed to hide and then get help, else I wouldn’t be here. But I have nothing now. Only the clothes on my back.” 

Sansa’s heart broke for the man, and she looked towards the crowd of smallfolk at the back of the room, wondering whether he’d brought his daughter with him. She saw a small girl with big, pale eyes and hair so dirty that it was hard to tell what colour it was. Sansa thought she might be nine or ten.

“I hoped - I hoped His Grace might know where a man in my position might find some honest work. A way of feeding myself and my daughter.”

“Honest work for an unskilled cripple?” Stannis said bluntly, his impatient scowl still present.

“Please, Your Grace,” Erac said, falling to his knees. “I protected the realm in your name. I was injured trying to protect your lands and your people from the Others.”

There were fresh murmurs, even louder than before. Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, clasping her hands together tightly.

“Worthy as you undoubtedly are,” Stannis said loudly, causing the courtiers to fall silent again, “you are not more worthy than the thousands of people in Westeros in your position. If I gave you honest work, the rest would no doubt hear of it and demand their fair share.”

Erac got back up slowly, using his remaining hand to push himself up off the floor. He hung his head. “I - I understand, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s stomach wrenched. She knew Stannis was right, but Erac and his daughter were of the north and they’d been through so much. There had to be _something_ they could do.

“Perhaps a member of the court could use him for their household?” Lord Davos suggested. “Surely not all servants require two hands?”

No one stepped forth. Sansa looked around, trying to see whether anyone was at least _considering_ it. But the courtiers were doing their best to avoid Erac’s pleading eyes. Sansa understood why. Servants needed to be trustworthy, and no one at court knew anything about Erac. He might easily be lying. They did not have Sansa’s experience of the north; they did not know the honour of northmen as she did.

Before she could think the matter through, she was speaking. “How old is your daughter, Erac?”

He glanced at the pale-eyed girl and then at Sansa. “She is eleven, m’lady.”

“Is that her?”

“Yes. Her name is Ella, m’lady.”

“Come a little closer, child,” Lord Davos said, gesturing for the girl to approach the council table.

Ella looked frightened, but did as she was bid, even managing a clumsy curtsey for the king and his court.

Sansa glanced at Stannis. “May I ask the girl a few questions, Your Grace?”

He nodded.

“Hello Ella,” Sansa said, smiling at the girl. “My name is Sansa Stark.”

Ella’s eyes widened in recognition and she scrambled to perform another clumsy curtsey. “M’lady,” she said, casting an anxious look at her father. Erac gave her a tense smile.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ella. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I’m sure you miss your mother and brother very much.”

Ella looked tearful for a moment, but she nodded and did not cry.

“Did you help your mother with her work, before you all had to move away from your farm?”

The girl nodded again. “I did, m’lady.”

“Are you good with your hands?”

An uncertain, frightened look.

“Did your mother teach you how to plait your hair? Or have you perhaps made flower crowns?”

The girl brightened. “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling shyly. “And I can make little roses to decorate pie crusts for special occasions, m’lady.”

“Wonderful! Then I’m sure you’d be of help in my household.” She turned to address Stannis. “I’d like to have her trained to be a lady’s maid, Your Grace. With your permission.”

Stannis looked at her, at the gathered courtiers, and then at Lord Davos. He was wearing his pensive scowl.

Sansa’s heart was pounding in her chest. She knew he would be taking a risk; if word got out that all one needed to do in order to secure a comfortable position for their children at the Red Keep was to show up with a tragic tale, they might very well end up with a dire situation on their hands. But she had to try. 

“Please, Your Grace. As a wedding gift?” she added, holding her breath.

He blinked and shifted for the first time in hours. It must have hurt, because the movement was followed by a wince. A beat later his expression had been reined in, however. He nodded and cleared his throat. “As my lady wishes,” he said, though the gallant words sounded very strange coming from him.

Sansa beamed, her heart swelling in her chest. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She turned to address Ella. “You and your father will feel right at home. Most of my household comes from the north.”

Erac was looking at her with tears in his eyes, stuttering his thanks. Ella simply looked dumbfounded.

She tried to ignore the whispers that had erupted among the courtiers once more, but blushed when she heard Carellen and Alynna tell the ladies around them that Sansa had such a kind heart, and exclaim over how sweetly the king doted on his betrothed.

Face still warm, Sansa asked the royal steward to show Erac and Ella to her own steward, Liram Mullynn, trusting that he would help them settle in.

When she returned to take her place among the ladies, Stannis met her eyes and held her gaze for a long moment, his expression inscrutable.

***

“I wish I’d been there,” Jeyne lamented, fidgeting a little atop her stool. The seamstress at her feet tutted at her to stay still.

“It really wasn’t all that interesting,” Sansa said, looking Jeyne’s gown over carefully. This was to be Jeyne’s final fitting: Sansa’s last chance to spot any imperfections and have the seamstress attend to them. “And you had more important things to concern yourself with.” 

“Not that interesting?” Jeyne scoffed. “I’ve heard that there’s a song called ‘The King’s Good Bride’ making the rounds in the city. A _song,_ Sansa.”

Sansa blinked at Jeyne. “A song?”

“Yes! You should have a singer summoned to recite it for you. I’ve heard it’s quite good.”

Her heart fluttered. She’d never had a song written about her before. Not a _proper_ one. Theon had made up a horrible song about her once, but that didn’t count.

“Perhaps I will,” Sansa said, smiling at her friend. “You look lovely.”

Jeyne blushed. “Do you think Devan will like it?”

“He’d be very stupid not to.”

Jeyne smoothed the fabric of her gown down over her hips, smiling happily.

“There, m’lady. I’ve finished pinning the hem,” the seamstress said.

“How does it look?” Jeyne asked Sansa, looking critically at the bottom of her gown.

Sansa looked her over carefully once again, and asked Jeyne to turn this way and that, assessing the seamstress's work. The gown was truly beautiful, and it fit Jeyne just as it should. It was mostly white, but there were blue silk accents, and the flared sleeves had been elaborately embroidered and trimmed with Myrish lace. The seamstress stood by, casting them both anxious glances.

“Perfect,” Sansa pronounced at last, and the seamstress sagged with relief. Sansa smiled at her before turning to observe Jeyne’s reaction.

Jeyne was _beaming._

***

The excitement was palpable as Sansa, Jeyne, Shireen, Alynna, Carellen and Marissa waited in Shireen’s solar for the singer to tune his harp. None of them spoke amongst themselves, and their various embroidery projects lay forgotten here and there around the room. Their guards had been banished to the other side of the solar door, though Ser Gerald had insisted on keeping it ajar.

Sansa’s heart was beating fast, and she kept catching herself chewing on her bottom lip. Though summoning a singer to entertain them was no sin, and though there were several ladies present to act as chaperones, Sansa could not help worrying whether Stannis might mislike it. For the past weeks she had been doing her best to avoid mingling with young, unattached men, going above and beyond even what the strictest rules of propriety dictated. _But it’s too late to do anything about it now._

The singer’s name was Tirius, and was said to have a voice sweeter than honeyed wine. He cleared his throat now, and looked at Shireen. “Would it please Her Grace to hear a song?”

“It would,” Shireen said, her posture perfect. She hardly looked shy at all. “Please play us the song about the king’s good bride.”

Tirius glanced hesitantly at Sansa. She squared her shoulders and made her face still. Slowly he looked back at Shireen. “As Her Grace commands,” he said, strumming his harp.

They all fell silent, and for a moment there was no sound but that of breathless anticipation.

_There once was a king with an iron heart,_  
_who was known ne’er to smile,_

_He conquered the throne and he conquered the crown,_  
_scowling all the while._

_But the king had to marry as kings always must,_  
_to produce a prince and an heir,_

_So he sent for the fairest maid in the land,_  
_with blue eyes and auburn hair._

_Oh, a cold iron heart can be melted, no man is immune to love’s heat…_

The faint sound of laughter carried into the solar from the other side of the door, and Sansa’s face suddenly became much too hot. She cast a longing glance at the frostwork on the window as Tirius continued to sing, his voice just as sweet as promised.

The song went on, describing how the ‘king’s good bride’ melted his iron heart with her beauty and kindness. It ended on a long high note, telling them how the good bride brought a smile to the unsmiling king’s lips. Overtly it was a romantic, sweet song, but Sansa was not simple; she might not be wedded and bedded, but she understood exactly what was supposed to make the king smile. (After some of her uncle’s insinuations, how could she not?) Judging by the sly looks the other ladies - except Shireen and Marissa - were giving her, they understood, too.

Once Tirius finished the song, they applauded and showered him with praise, complimenting his voice and his talent for the harp to the skies and back. He was offered cakes and wine to refresh himself, but he’d barely had a bite of a strawberry tart before the ladies were clamouring to have him recite their favourite songs, each one trying to be the first to ask. 

Sansa remained still and quiet, her heart clattering clumsily around her chest.

Had Stannis only allowed her to take Erac and Ella on because he hoped it would endear him to her? Make her more eager to wed him and welcome him to her bed? Was Uncle Brynden right? Would bedding her be more than a duty to him? Would it... _please_ him?

She ducked her head and hoped the ladies were too enraptured with Tirius and his new song to notice her flustered state. For some reason her entire body seemed to be blushing.

Might Stannis really look at her as a woman he desired, rather than a silly girl who needed endless lessons to become what he needed her to be? _Well, perhaps he does not think me so very silly anymore._ Sansa was fairly certain that he truly had come to like her - as much as he liked anyone - but the idea of him _desiring_ her sent a strange tremor through her.

_But if he were so keen to bed me, wouldn’t he have tried to kiss me properly by now?_

Sansa seized hold of the thought and did not let go, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she concentrated on it. There was no truth in the song Tirius had sung. Stannis had let her take Erac and Ella on because it had been the right thing to do, and because she had found a way to do it without invoking dire consequences.

_… and yet… and yet._

He had been jealous of Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen, and sometimes there was something in his eyes that made it hard for her to breathe. He _had_ kissed her hand a few times. Perhaps he would kiss her properly if she made him aware that she was amenable? Her stomach jolted. _Am I amenable?_

There was another jolt, and then it was as if her insides were twisting and dancing. Sansa couldn’t decide whether she liked the sensation, but she had only ever experienced it when she thought too much about Stannis and kisses, or Stannis and _royal beds_.

Did she dare try to arrange an unchaperoned moment with the king? A proper one? Without the door open and guards hearing every word they spoke?

It would have to be quite different from their weekly meetings in his solar. They’d need to be much more relaxed, so it would probably be better to meet after sunset. She could ask for lots of candles to be lit; even a harsh man like Stannis could look a little softer around the edges in candlelight. And there would need to be food, and perhaps vases of fresh flowers to lend the air a sweet scent…

Sansa barely heard a word of the next song Tirius sang, but she was grateful for his presence nonetheless. Without him there, she was certain the other ladies would notice how distracted she was. 

No. Stannis would hate it. She’d never seen him stop to appreciate the scent of a flower, and he’d probably think it wasteful to light more candles than necessary. He’d never relax, and he’d never even think to kiss her. He’d probably wait until they were in the Great Sept of Baelor to kiss her for the first time. Her stomach plummeted. _Gods._

It wasn’t until Tirius had played five more songs that Sansa managed to put the matter completely out of her mind and compose herself.

***

Sansa stopped in her tracks and stared at the table in front of her. She had arrived for her weekly breakfast with Stannis, but there was no food. Empty cups and plates; yes. Food; no.

It had been a wrench to wake up. A storm raged outside the castle, black clouds and strong winds, and the threat of hail and lightning filled the air with a crackling tension. It did not help matters that she had stayed up late to read one of Maester Gormon’s books, and her head hurt terribly. Sansa would have liked to pull the covers over her head and sleep until noon if it had been any other day. But her maids had helped her get ready, and here she was. On time.

She looked at Stannis as she took her seat across from him, and her chest tightened as she realised that his mood was as dark as the weather outside. He stared at her in silence for a stretch of time that felt unbearable long. 

“Stannis?”

He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, clenching his jaw. When he opened them back up, he was glaring. “Don’t do that again.”

Unsure whether her stomach was currently clenching in on itself due to hunger or due to the tension in the solar, Sansa blinked at him. “Do what?”

“Your performance in the Great Hall five days ago,” he bit out, still glaring. “A wedding gift, indeed.”

Sansa’s heart sped up, and her stomach climbed to her throat. “I know you wanted to help Erac,” she said, her face heating up. She kept her back very straight and met his eyes despite her discomfort. _Stannis has no use for cowards._ “It was the right thing to do.”

His eyes flickered, the glare faltering for a moment. But it was blink and you missed it, and then he was glaring at her even more fiercely. “I cannot help every man who comes before the throne with a tale of woe. What will you do next time? There are only so many wedding gifts I can give you.” He was practically vibrating with agitation, his hands curled into fists. “I won’t have you growing spoiled. First you ask for cyvasse lessons, then you ask for Ser Aron Santagar to be given a position on the small council, and now this?” He rapped a fist on the table, causing the porcelain cups to rattle. Sansa inhaled sharply, her cheeks stinging almost as if he’d struck her. “Swear that you will not do it again.”

She took a deep breath, doing her best to quieten her racing heart. Slowly, she shook her head. Perhaps it would be wiser to simply obey, but she could not. _Am I to spend the rest of our life in silence? Never asking a single thing of my husband?_ She could not believe that she had been thinking about kissing him yesterday. “I can’t do that.”

His hands uncurled and his eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” she said, speaking as firmly as she could while remaining polite, “I would never make it a habit to speak out of turn, or purposefully cause you embarrassment.” _Septa Mordane would be appalled if I did._ “But I cannot swear to keep silent when my heart compels me to speak.” She paused and looked directly into his eyes. “A good man would not ask that of me.”

A vein on the side of his neck began to protrude alarmingly. “I must be able to trust you,” he said, raising his voice. “And you must trust my judgement.”

“I do,” she said, though her stomach squirmed. The tips of Davos’s fingers came to mind, and several other more recent judgements he had made over the past weeks. Harsh judgements. _’The Iron Gauntlet,’_ Father’s voice said in the recesses of her memory.

Stannis already had his mouth open and breath drawn, seemingly ready to continue his shouting, but at her words he frowned and went still, closing his mouth. A moment of silence went by. “You do?” he asked flatly, searching her face.

“Certainly,” she said, frowning at him in return.

“You say that, but then you try to reverse every decision I make,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his tone daring her to contradict him.

 _Every decision?_ She fought the urge to blow out a frustrated breath. “That has not been my intention,” she said instead, as calmly as she could, though the turmoil inside her made it near impossible.

“What are your intentions then?” Stannis asked, his hands curling into fists again. “With Ser Aron? With Erac?” There was a familiar darkness in his gaze now. A darkness she had last seen in this very solar. There had been no food then, either.

The storm outside the window raged on, a low rumble of thunder filling the gap in their conversation.

The ground seemed to have disappeared from under Sansa’s feet, and she was falling. She did not know what to say. _How can he be jealous of them?_ Had she not been going out of her way to keep away from young men he might perceive as rivals to respect his feelings? Hadn’t she been making every effort to get to know _him_ , spend time with _him?_ A hot, sickly wave of confused emotion welled up inside her. She blinked rapidly as her throat closed up.

“Well?” Stannis asked through gritted teeth.

 _I thought everything was going well between us._ She pressed her lips together and tried to breathe despite the sudden lack of air in the solar. _Was I being stupid? Seeing things that weren’t there?_ She made another desperate attempt to draw breath, but it was impossible. _Don’t._ She blinked faster and faster, the pressure behind her eyes building, hot and inescapable. _Please don’t. It isn’t ladylike._

“Speak, girl,” Stannis said, raising his voice again and striking the table. The sudden noise startled her.

A sob wrenched itself free as she gasped for air, but she refused to let go completely, her shoulders trembling with the effort. She squeezed her eyes shut, realising too late that it was a mistake. Inside her head she could see his every glare, hear every harsh word, recall every missed chance at kindness, and it was all repeating itself again and again, sapping every spark of hope from her breast. Soon the all-encompassing certainty that it would never get better - that she would be trapped with him until she became as sour as Queen Selyse, or until the Others came and murdered everyone she had ever loved - was weighing her down like a thousand saddle bags. 

A tear escaped. Then another.

Vaguely, she heard the noise of a chair scraping across the floor, and though her vision was now blurry with tears, she could see that Stannis had pushed himself away from the table. He was still seated, however.

The brief, irrational hope that he might have been on his way to get up and comfort her vanished. She buried her face in her hands, and tried to make herself stop, but she just _couldn’t._

_Why should he want to comfort me? He can barely tolerate me._

Another noise, this time behind her, interrupted her thoughts.

“My lady?” It was Ser Barristan. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. She immediately turned in her chair to embrace him around the middle, not caring that she was making a fool of herself. She pressed her face into his breastplate, barely noticing that it was hard and uncomfortable because his hands were already patting her back, and they were warm and steady. She closed her eyes and imagined that he was Father, that she was back in Winterfell, and that this was all a long, bad dream. “Your Grace, what has happened?” Ser Barristan asked, sounding shocked.

“I - nothing. You may go.” Stannis’s voice sounded very odd, but Sansa didn’t care.

She tightened her grip on Ser Barristan and let the tears fall freely, as she shook. But the madness that had overtaken her was quickly abating, leaving her stomach in embarrassed knots.

“It can’t be as bad as all this, my lady,” Ser Barristan murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles over the middle of her back. His other hand brought a handkerchief to her face. She released her hold on him and accepted the handkerchief with a shuddered breath. “I will be right outside,” he added, patting her reassuringly before taking a step back and slowly returning to his post.

Sansa wiped her eyes and nose as delicately as she could, not daring to look at Stannis as she did. But eventually there was nothing else for her to do.

The storm in his eyes seemed to have passed, though the one outside raged on. Hail and sleet had begun to pour from the sky, beating against the window as if it meant to break the glass. Stannis did not seem to hear it. He was staring at her with a deep, discomfited frown. “Are you... well?” he asked, his eyes now aimed over her shoulder.

Not quite trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

“No you’re not,” Stannis said, scrubbing his face with a hand, irritation bleeding into his voice. “You’re clearly upset. I would know why.”

A cross between a laugh and sob bubbled up from her chest, and she stared incredulously at him. “Why?” she repeated, shaking her head. “You shout at me and insult me, and now you ask me why I’m upset?” She wiped impatiently at the angry tears that were now welling up, crushing the soft handkerchief between her fingers. “I can’t bear this.” Swiftly, she got to her feet and started for the door. But she had only taken two steps when she heard Stannis’s chair scraping over the floor again. A hand gripped her upper arm tightly, using her own momentum to swing her around to face him.

“I have not dismissed you,” Stannis said, his eyes ablaze. He was gripping both of her arms now, pinning her in place.

“Let me go,” she said, breathing heavily through parted lips as her nose was still partially blocked up with tears.

Stannis inched closer, still gripping her tightly. His gaze had dropped to her mouth. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his skin was flushed. Sansa’s heart thudded powerfully, and a paralysing wave of heat coursed through her, turning her knees to water. Stannis’s face came closer still, the air he exhaled still warm as she breathed it in. _Is he going to kiss me?_ She shivered and closed her eyes, blood rushing in her ears. But then he squeezed her so tightly it hurt, and she whimpered, breaking the curious spell.

Nostrils flaring, Stannis immediately released her, taking a large step back, jarring the table in his haste. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at her with something rather like dismay, his jaw working. “That was - “ he cut himself off, swallowing noticeably. “You may go.”

Still shaking, she made herself walk to the door. Her mind was a whirl of incoherent thoughts, and her heart was still racing as if she’d been struggling to run through deep snow.

“My lady,” Ser Barristan said as soon as she emerged from the solar. “Is everything as it should be? Did you receive ill news?” Her own guard was hovering behind Ser Barristan, looking equally concerned.

Gathering the scattered pieces of herself, she made herself shake her head. “No, it was nothing like that. Thank you for your kindness, ser.” She held his crumpled handkerchief up. “I will return this once it has been washed.”

He waved a hand. “I have others.” His eyes were still full of concern. “Are you certain you are well, my lady?”

She glanced between him and her own guard, her chest tight. _I cannot have the entire castle gossiping._ “I am,” she said as firmly as she could.

As her guard escorted her to the Maidenvault, her heart gradually slowed, her emotions settled somewhat, and her thoughts started to make sense again. 

_Stannis nearly kissed me._

He’d said all those awful things, but then he’d - _Gods._ The memory of it was still too fresh, and her stomach swooped. _He wants to kiss me._ Her stomach continued to swoop and squirm as the thought settled.

But why did he accuse her of having secret intentions with Ser Aron and poor Erac? It seemed utterly senseless. She did not think she had ever spoken directly to Ser Aron, though she had discussed his position with Davos. And though she sympathised deeply with Erac’s plight, she knew her place and she was certain he knew his. Frowning, she went over her conversation with Stannis in her mind, trying to make sense of his mood.

Once she was in her apartments, she sent every servant that tried to attend her away, asking to be left alone in her solar. There she paced, trying to remember everything. It was difficult as her emotions were still raw, and she kept wanting to cry again or curl up in a corner and die of mortification over the way she had broken down in front of Stannis. But sheer stubbornness kept her going, and she made herself recall it all, relentless despite her burning face and upset stomach.

_’You must trust my judgement.’_

Had that been the heart of the matter? Did he need to be reassured that she supported his decisions as king?

Sansa bit her lip. She knew a queen should support her king, but her mother had taught her that support did not come in the form of mindless agreement. She _had_ been supporting Stannis when she’d found a way to help Erac despite the tricky circumstances, just as she had been supporting him when she’d asked him to give Ser Aron a position on the small council rather than dismissing him. He was one of the only Dornishmen of his rank at court, so outright dismissal would have been decidedly undiplomatic.

Ever since he had first spoken of a betrothal Stannis had encouraged her to speak her mind. Why was he suddenly getting upset with her for doing so?

 _And if he was so upset with me, why almost kiss me? Why apologise?_

She brought the tips of her fingers to her temples and rubbed little circles. The skin of her face was much too hot, and her fingers were pleasantly cool in comparison.

 _I wish Mother were here._ She would know exactly what to do.

Sansa mulled the matter over for hours, but in the end Sansa decided that she was not getting anywhere on her own. The vague plan she’d begun to put together after she heard Tirius sing would need to be enacted after all.

She needed a private meeting with Stannis. She needed answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your amazing comments on this story. You guys are giving me life. ♥


	14. A Trap

“I know what to do,” Jeyne said, laughing even though Sansa wished she wouldn’t. “You’ve told me a hundred times!”

Sansa and Jeyne were in Jeyne’s chambers, examining her maiden cloak to see if the embroidery needed any additional attention. Outside the sky was dry, but windy enough to rattle the window panes.

“Please,” Sansa said, dropping the fabric, and practically wringing her hands. “This dinner is important to me.”

Nearly two weeks had gone by since her argument with Stannis, and they had yet to have a proper conversation. Sansa was certain he had been avoiding her; he had cancelled the breakfast they should have had a week after their argument, and hadn’t approached her at any other opportunity. He had also made it impossible for her to approach him, though she still saw him frequently. In an effort to keep people from noticing that anything was wrong, she had continued to take her place in the Great Hall when Stannis heard petitioners, and she had accompanied Jeyne to the training yard several times. But it did not seem to matter. The servants were already starting to gossip. 

It had therefore surprised her greatly when Stannis hadn’t ignored her invitation to dine with herself, Jeyne, and Devan tonight.

_Perhaps he is as keen as I am to stop the gossip from getting out of hand?_

Jeyne stifled her giggles and made herself serious. “Very well. First I’ll ask Devan to make sure Allard will be guarding Stannis tonight,” she said, a sly smile already appearing, “because Allard won’t ask any questions about closed doors.” Jeyne waggled her eyebrows. “Then, after dessert, I will grow suddenly tired. I will ask Devan to escort me to my chambers, and you will have a chance to make up with His Dour Grace, have your wicked way with him, or whatever it is that you want to do.”

Sansa blushed. “Don’t,” she pleaded, looking down at her hands. “You’re making it sound sordid.”

Jeyne touched Sansa’s cheek. “Sansa,” she said, all traces of levity gone from her voice. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know you don’t have anything sordid in mind. And _everyone_ knows King Stannis would never dishonour you.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Ser Brynden would kill him.”

Sansa might have laughed if she weren’t worried about it being true. Despite her efforts, Jeyne wasn’t the only one who noticed something was amiss between her and Stannis. Her uncle had been patient for the first week, but lately as he had taken to interrogating her whenever she spent more than a minute in his presence. Lord Davos was more circumspect, but he had been asking increasingly probing questions, too. Even Ser Gerald was trying to get answers out of her, which was just _irritating._ Shireen and her ladies did not seem suspicious yet, but with the servants wagging their tongues, Sansa knew it was just a matter of time.

Ser Barristan had not asked her a single question, however. He had treated her as he always had during their lessons, and hadn’t mentioned the incident except when she’d brought it up by trying to return his handkerchief. 

“It is my hope that you will not have need of it again in the king’s presence, but I should like you to keep it all the same, my lady,” he’d said, pressing the folded square of pure white fabric back into her hand, his expression serious. He had then proceeded to show her some of his favourite entries in the White Book, explaining the respect he had for the flawed, yet ultimately dutiful men who had recorded them.

Presently, Sansa searched Jeyne’s face, her insides wriggling terribly. “I’m sorry for keeping secrets, but I just don’t know what to tell you.” How could she be expected to explain any of it to _anyone?_ She still didn’t understand what had happened.

Jeyne’s expression softened. “I know you must keep some things private. But I wish you’d let me help.” She went a little pink. “Besides, Devan says His Grace has talked to Lord Davos about what happened, so it would only be fair if you told me.”

The bottom of Sansa’s stomach disappeared. “What? How does he know that?” Could Davos have confided such a thing to Devan?

The pink colour of Jeyne’s cheeks deepened. “He heard them. But he says the door was closed, and all he really heard was that Lord Davos raised his voice, and said your name.” She was speaking very fast and casting Sansa anxious looks. “He wasn’t trying to listen. It just happened.”

“Oh. I - I see.” 

The wind howled, rattling the window panes particularly loudly.

It was as if all of Sansa’s insides had been rearranged. Had Stannis and Davos really been talking about her? Her heart gave a wobbly beat somewhere in her stomach. Had Stannis told him everything? Even about the… almost kiss? Vividly, it repeated itself in her memory, and her face prickled with heat. Jeyne’s earlier assertion that Stannis would never dishonour her came to mind immediately after.

“Do you think Stannis would consider a kiss dishonourable?” she heard herself ask. _Was that why he stopped himself at the last moment?_

Jeyne’s eyebrows rose before a smile widened spread slowly over her face, until it was a grin that went from ear to ear. “Is that what this is all about? A kiss?” She let out a high-pitched squeal. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“It’s not!” Sansa glanced at the door. Ser Gerald must have heard the squeal even though it was closed. She held her breath, but there was no concerned knock. “We haven’t kissed,” she said in a hushed voice. “Which is why I’m wondering whether he thinks it’s dishonourable.”

Looking a little crestfallen, Jeyne wrinkled her forehead. “I should hope not. He’s been married before.”

“Yes, but to Queen Selyse,” Sansa pointed out. A very strict, very _religious_ woman.

Jeyne giggled, but covered her mouth to stop herself. “I can’t imagine her kissing anyone,” she said, looking both guilty and amused.

Sansa shot her a disapproving look. “I mean, do you think he would think it dishonourable to kiss me before we’re married?”

“You’re betrothed! No one thinks it dishonourable to kiss while betrothed.” Jeyne was looking at her as if she’d gone mad. “And if your next question is whether I think he _wants_ to kiss you…”

Sansa’s eyes widened, blood rushing to her face. “That’s not -”

“... I think he’s bound to after being married to Queen Hairy Lip all those years,” Jeyne went on. “Besides, you’re so beautiful that every man in the keep wants to kiss you. Save perhaps my Devan, but that is only because he loves me so. I’ve even seen the knights of the Kingsguard look at you, and they’re not supposed to notice ladies at all.”

“Ser Barristan wants to kiss me?” Sansa asked, raising a sceptical brow.

Jeyne burst into giggles. “Don’t be silly, he’s older than the Great Sept of Baelor. I meant the _young_ knights.”

“Ser Allard?”

“Shall I ask Devan to find out?” Jeyne shot Sansa a silly smile.

Sansa threw a silk pillow at Jeyne - missing by a mile - and burst into her own fit of giggles at the affronted look Jeyne gave her.

***

Her hands were shaking.

Sansa was certain she would have called everything off if it hadn’t been for Jeyne’s reassuring smiles.

“Is the king really going to be here?” Devan asked, looking almost as nervous as Sansa felt.

“Yes,” Sansa said, trying to convince herself, too. 

Tonight would be the first time Stannis visited the Maidenvault after his brief appearance with Lord Davos when Sansa had still been decorating, and she was sure it had never looked better than it had at this moment. Everything had been meticulously cleaned, and she’d had as many candles lit as she’d dared. The silver candlesticks had been polished to a mirror shine, and she’d had the table covered in a thick, cream-coloured tablecloth, with a cloth-of-gold runner down the middle. Imported frostfires stood in a simple crystal vase on a sideboard rather than at the centre of the table, as Sansa did not want them obstructing her view of her guests during dinner. But though they were off to the side, they filled the room with a faint, soothing scent.

In short, she had done everything she could think of to make the room inviting, comfortable, and relaxing. After all, she did not want Stannis to leave before she had a chance to speak to him in private.

“Has he said anything about his new squire?”

Sansa barely knew the boy who had filled Devan’s old position now that he was due to be knighted and married. She sometimes saw him help Stannis with his armour and his weapons in the training yard, but that was all. "I haven't spoken to His Grace very much lately," she said.

“Why don’t you taste the wine for us, Sansa?” Jeyne said, nodding at a serving girl who was standing by at the ready.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, accepting a cup and taking a small sip. She set the cup down quickly, worried that she would spill it all if she tried to hold onto it. It was good wine, but Sansa couldn’t appreciate it properly with her mouth as dry as it was.

The serving girl poured wine for Devan and Jeyne, too.

Her steward’s familiar knock at the door had Sansa jumping in her seat and nearly knocking her cup over. She was glad she hadn’t. The wine was a dark red colour that would surely have stained her new lavender silks terribly. They were simple, but the colour was particularly flattering, so she’d hate to be forced to dye them black. Liram entered and announced the king in his strong, northern accent, and before Sansa knew it she and her guests had risen to receive him.

“Your Grace,” she heard herself say as if from a distance. “I’m so pleased you could make it.” Her heart was beating much too hard, and she couldn’t seem to stop smoothing the skirt of her gown down. She could see Stannis had changed into a different doublet from the one he had worn to hear petitioners that afternoon, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d made the effort to please her. His boots were particularly well polished, too.

For a moment he stared at her in silence, a lingering discomfort in his eyes. “Good evening, my lady.” His tone was overly formal, his stance tense.

Tensing up in response, Sansa watched as he greeted Jeyne and Devan in turn.

She took a few shallow breaths that failed to do much to calm her. “Shall we sit down?” she said, trying to imitate the way her mother spoke whenever they’d had important guests in Winterfell. “I believe dinner is ready to be served.”

The conversation around the table was awkward at first, and Sansa wondered whether it had been a mistake not to invite Shireen. Stannis was often a little more at ease when she was near. As it was, Stannis hardly said anything, but he did answer all of Jeyne’s well-meaning questions. He did it rather stiffly, but with more patience than Sansa would have expected.

“Your parents must be so excited about the wedding,” Sansa said, smiling at Devan.

“They are,” Devan said, smiling back with his whole being. “Mother loves Jeyne, and Father keeps clutching at his lucky pouch and reminding me to be sure to thank His Grace.” Devan nodded at Stannis. “I have thanked you, haven’t I?”

Stannis nodded back, his expression serious. “With me and mine the Seaworth name will always be worth more than all the silver and gold in the Iron Bank.”

“Lord Davos rescued you during a siege, did he not, Your Grace?” Jeyne asked, her tone a touch breathless. “It’s why the Seaworth sigil shows an onion?”

Something hard flashed in the king’s eyes, but it was gone as soon as Sansa noticed it. He clenched his jaw and nodded. “Lord Davos risked much the night he smuggled his onions and his fish into Storm’s End.”

“It was a risk worth taking,” Jeyne said, shooting Devan a quick affectionate smile, “he would not be Lord Hand had he not taken that risk. His sons would not be members of the small council, knights, and respected sea captains, his good wife not a lady.”

“And I would not be marrying a lady such as yourself,” Devan said, gazing at Jeyne with such naked admiration that Sansa had to duck her head for a moment to hide a blush, her heart pounding.

When she looked up again, she found Stannis staring at her, his expression... not cross, but otherwise unreadable. Her blush deepened, but she kept her chin up, resisting the urge to duck her head again.

“Oh, what am I to do with you?” Jeyne said, smiling and shaking her head at Devan. He beamed at her in return, thoroughly pleased with himself.

A course of smoked salmon, served with a slice of dark rye bread and a side of creamy sauce sprinkled liberally with dill, was placed in front of them, distracting them all. Sansa watched Stannis carefully, observing his reaction to the food. She was pleased to see him sit up a little straighter and immediately reach for his cutlery. There was no trace of a scowl.

By the time dessert was served, they were all much more relaxed, full of good food and wine, and comfortably warm due to the crackling fire in the hearth. Even the weather was behaving; the afternoon’s wind had died down, and snow was falling softly to the ground. A part of Sansa almost wanted to close her eyes and sink into a slumber, but anticipation kept her quite alert. Butterflies filled her stomach, fluttering madly. Soon it would be time for Jeyne to retire. Soon she’d have her chance to be truly alone with Stannis and maybe - _finally_ \- get some answers.

Almost as soon as Jeyne had cleared her dessert plate she gave a ladylike yawn, covering her mouth politely.

“I should have followed your example, Your Grace,” she said, nodding at Stannis’s cup, “I’m afraid the wine has made me frightfully sleepy.”

Stannis, who had not partaken of the wine, narrowed his eyes slightly but did not comment.

“I’m sorry Sansa, I should very much have liked to stay for longer, it’s been such a lovely evening,” Jeyne went on. “Devan, could please escort me to my chambers?”

Devan jumped to his feet, eyes full of concern. “Are you certain you’re only tired? You’re not falling ill?”

“Quite certain,” Jeyne said with a smile, She gave another polite yawn. “My days have just been very busy.” She cast Stannis an apologetic look. “I hope you understand, Your Grace.”

Stannis nodded.

Sansa rose when Jeyne did and escorted her guests to the door. When they were sure neither Devan or Stannis could see, the two ladies exchanged significant glances, and Jeyne even went as far as to wink. Sansa wished she could wink back, but all of her blood seemed to have drained from her body, making her too weak and dizzy to consider it.

Sansa’s heart was pounding by the time she returned to sit beside Stannis, the dining room door firmly closed.

There was a tense moment of silence.

“I should go,” Stannis said without preamble, not letting Sansa get a single word out. He started to get up.

“Wait,” Sansa blurted, making herself meet his eyes though she had no idea what else to say. “Please.”

He remained seated, his gaze fixed on her. “Why do I get the sense that I have been lured into a trap?” His lips had gone very thin.

“It’s not a trap,” she said quickly.

He raised a brow. “It might smell of flowers, but I know a trap when I see one.”

Sansa blushed, but though her heart was still beating irregularly she refused to falter. “If you knew it was a trap, why did you let yourself be caught?”

A discomfited expression crossed his face. “I have been advised to… speak to you. It may as well be now.”

“Oh.” Had that been the conversation Devan had overheard? Lord Davos advising Stannis to speak to her?

There was another stretch of silence. Stannis shifted in his chair. “Well?” he eventually said. “Why have you trapped me here?”

A thousand questions leapt to mind, clouding her senses. She had to close her eyes for a moment. “I just want to understand,” she said, hoping she did not sound as desperate as she felt. “We are betrothed, and I still don’t know what that means to you.” Stannis made an irritated sound, but Sansa did not give him a chance to interrupt. “I don’t know what sort of queen you wish me to be. You have encouraged me to speak my mind, and you have asked me to take lessons with the members of your small council.” She eyed her near-empty cup of wine. “I - I thought that meant you expect me to contribute in more ways than birthing heirs.” 

“I do,” Stannis said curtly.

She drew a deep breath. “How am I to believe that? Last time we spoke, you seemed to want nothing of that sort. You implied that you wished for a silent queen; one who would not speak up even to help you.”

“Help me?” he scoffed, his gaze darkening. “How does it help me when my betrothed begs me for favours before the entire court? One such _wedding gift_ may be understood to be a reasonable concession, but if you make a habit of this…” He let out a loud breath, shifting in clear agitation. “You would have me look weak? Is that your aim?”

 _What?_ Her mind was racing; her heart thudding. A confused muddle of contradictory feelings knotted her stomach up, and she shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“Then you agree that you will not cause such a scene again?”

“Stannis,” she began, breathing very deliberately through her nose, “have you heard what the court and the smallfolk have been saying about you of late?”

His lips thinned. “I have been informed.”

“Then you know it has been... quite favourable,” she said, blushing as she recalled the lyrics of the song Tirius had recited. _Gods._ Had Stannis heard it, too?

“It may be favourable _now,_ but I am thinking of the future.” He spoke firmly, but he was not meeting her eyes. “I will not have the court and the realm at large think I am ruled by my _wife._ ”

“Then do not let me rule you,” she said, anger flaring hotly inside her. “Let me -” she frowned, searching desperately for the right words. A memory stirred - something Father had said - and the words came in a flash of inspiration. “Let me be the silk glove to your iron gauntlet.” 

Her words seemed to hang in the still air of the dining room. If the candlelight and the fire in the hearth had not been casting flickering shadows everywhere, Sansa might almost have believed that time itself had frozen still as ice.

Stannis looked at her hands and then his own, but his eyes were unfocused. 

When he said nothing, Sansa decided to go on. “The realm often needs a just ruler with a firm hand, but at other times a softer touch is required.”

His head snapped up, his eyes sharp once again. “You think I don’t know this? It is a common enough tactic.”

Sansa’s heart was pounding again. “But last time we spoke, you asked about my intentions. You implied -”

“You did not consult me,” he said swiftly, cutting her off.

She blinked at him, trying to read his face. He had clenched his jaw shut, and was breathing rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“You spoke to Lord Davos about Ser Aron’s position without consulting me first. And you asked for your wedding gift without warning, in front of the whole court.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “When should I have consulted you? We barely ever speak to each other.” _And in Erac’s case, I had no way of consulting you beforehand. It happened too quickly._

“We are speaking now.”

“Yes, but…” She closed her eyes and breathed. “You have not made yourself available.”

For a moment he looked ready to argue, but something stopped him. He looked down at the table, his mouth twisting as if he had tasted something sour. “Perhaps.”

 _Perhaps?_ She blinked, hardly believing he had said it. She waited for several beats, but he did not go on. She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t made himself available, why he’d said yes to giving her and Shireen cyvasse lessons only to fail to make the time, why he hadn’t explained his need to be consulted instead of shouting and accusing last time they’d spoken, but found it impossible to utter the words. “Very well,” she said instead, her mouth dryer than Dorne. “If you make yourself more available to me, I can agree to consult you more.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Can you agree to listen when I make reasonable requests of you?”

“As long as they truly are reasonable,” Stannis countered.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting that she had been nothing but reasonable, and he was the one who kept being utterly mystifying. But her anger passed quickly as she realised he had _agreed_. It was perhaps a good thing that she was sitting down. “Thank you,” she said faintly. She reached for her cup and drained the dregs of her wine from it. “Might I make a request now?”

Stannis gestured for her to speak.

She placed her cup on the table, turning it carefully so the carved emblem in the silver faced her. Breathing deeply, she made herself look Stannis in the eyes. “Please do not shout at me again.”

For a single heartbeat, Stannis looked taken aback. But then his face hardened. “Or what? You’ll cry?”

Blood rushed to her face until her cheeks stung, but she kept her eye contact with him. “I will try not to.”

His jaw working, he considered her. “I am not that breed of man who finds pleasure in causing women to weep.” He paused, exhaling loudly. “I cannot promise I will never raise my voice again, but if you can try to keep from weeping, I expect I can try to keep from shouting.” He stopped, but in his eyes a war was being waged, so she kept silent, curious to see what he was struggling with. He looked down and cleared his throat. “But it was… not my intention to upset you. It was… badly done.”

Her heart jolted. _Is he trying to apologise?_ She stared at him, unable to believe it. Her stomach clenching in on itself, she blinked rapidly. “Do you really think I’m spoiled?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He snorted, and she winced internally. “Compared to a kitchen girl, perhaps. Compared to a highborn lady of your station? No.” Another loud exhale. “Hardly spoiled at all.”

She looked up and found him already watching her. His face was somehow both stubborn and contrite, but she could see that he meant what he’d said. Somewhere deep inside her, a stinging wound closed. “Thank you,” she said, the courtesy rising effortlessly to her lips.

He gave a single nod, tension visibly draining from his shoulders.

The fire crackled, and a log split apart with a hiss and a pop.

“I should go,” Stannis said, glancing at the closed door.

Though it might have been wiser to let him leave - to allow her emotions to settle and her mind to wrap itself around everything that had been said - Sansa was not ready for the conversation to be over. Their almost kiss had not been addressed, and though she had no idea how to even bring it up, she didn’t know when she might have another opportunity like this. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said softly. “We so rarely have a chance to be properly alone.”

He looked at the door again. “It isn’t appropriate for us to be alone,” he said stiffly.

Her eyes strayed to his lips for a single heartbeat, their _almost_ running through her memory once again, before returning to his eyes. “It’s not?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He closed his eyes, and kept them closed for a little longer than necessary. “You know it’s not.” He shifted, looking pained. “And if there is nothing else you wish to discuss -”

“Our wedding,” she blurted.

The pained look lingered. “Any detail in particular? The event will not take place for -” he paused, grimacing, “- _several_ months yet.”

“I wanted to talk about the ceremony,” she decided, making it up as she went along.

“Yes?”

“It will be held in the Great Sept I presume?”

“I am king,” Stannis stated, as if that was answer enough.

Sansa nodded, her heart beating hard. “Yes, of course. And the ceremony will be… traditional?”

Stannis sighed. “Yes.”

She swallowed and ignored her swooping stomach. “So you will be required to kiss me?”

Stannis’ eyes widened momentarily and he looked away, his eyes fixing on some object behind her left shoulder. “ _Yes._ ” He was scowling now, and more tense than he had been at the start of dinner.

“Do you - do you intend for it to be our first kiss?” she asked, watching him closely.

He furrowed his brow and met her eyes again. He looked a little like he sometimes did in the training yard, having braced himself for a blow but then never received it. “That is your question?”

Sansa straightened her back, wondering whether he had expected her to ask about the almost kiss outright. “Yes.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “It is not my intention to dishonour you,” he said at length, his expression discomfited again.

“Would kissing your betrothed before the wedding be dishonourable?” Sansa asked, holding her breath as she waited for his response. Would he disagree with Jeyne?

Stannis remained silent until her lungs started to burn.

“When I command men in battle I have those who would rape the women in their path gelded.” His expression grew grave and shadowed. A chill ran down Sansa’s spine, but confusion followed in its wake. What did war and rape have to do with their situation? She was speaking of _kisses._ “Touching a woman against her will is the most dishonourable thing a man can do,” Stannis finished.

Her heart skipped a beat as understanding dawned. “But I am not-” she hesitated, embarrassment knotting her tongue up.

Stannis gave her a sharp look. “What?”

She blushed. “I am not unwilling, Stannis.” She drew in a breath that sounded loud in the still room. “I should not feel dishonoured if you were to kiss me.” She looked down at her lap, noticing that her hands were clasped so tightly that her fingers had turned white and bloodless. “If you deemed it appropriate,” she added quickly.

There was another long stretch of silence, and Sansa didn’t dare look up. Had she been too bold?

“Sansa.” The tone of his voice gave her no inkling as to his mood. She was forced to look up. To her relief Stannis did not look angry. “You wish for me to kiss you?” he asked, his words spoken slowly and clearly pronounced. He was sitting unnaturally still.

She nodded, her insides dancing again in that way she was not sure she liked. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, but when he opened them again his gaze had sharpened. “Why?”

 _Why?_ Sansa opened her mouth but closed it quickly. Their argument aside, it seemed such a strange question. Especially given that he had already almost kissed her. _Surely it is only natural for a lady to wish to be kissed by her betrothed?_ How else was she supposed to fall in love?

_’I had thought you understood that ours is a political match, made out of necessity.’_

Did Stannis perhaps believe that love was impossible when a match was made for political reasons?

_And yet he already wants to kiss me._

“I don’t want our first kiss to happen in front of the entire court,” she said, her skin tingling distractingly. It wasn’t a lie; the thought of kissing Stannis for the first time in front of every lord, knight, and lady at court made her mouth dry up and her palms sweat. “ _My_ first kiss,” she added in a whisper, her cheeks blazing with heat.

Stannis was looking at her with the oddest expression. “You have never been kissed?” he said at length, staring at her, his jaw working.

“Never,” she repeated simply, hoping that her complexion was not matching her hair too horribly.

“And you wish me to be your first?”

She blinked at him. His questions grew stranger and stranger. “Of course.” _You’re my betrothed._

He was still staring. “Now?”

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Would he really do it? Her heart was beating so hard that her chest almost hurt, and she had forgotten how to breathe through her nose.

Stannis rose to his feet and she immediately did the same, moving so that the table was not between them. He settled a hand on her shoulder, but held her at bay rather than drawing her near. His expression was grave. “I do not think it would be appropriate,” he said, frowning down at her.

“May I ask why?” Disappointment was hollowing out her insides.

He swallowed. “You are... quite young, my lady.”

 _In a few short months we shall be required to do a lot more._ “Not too young for a kiss, surely?” she whispered. “I am not asking you to take me to your bed.” Just saying the words caused a fresh surge of heat to rush to her face, her neck, and her chest. “And it’s Sansa.”

Stannis parted his lips but no sound came out. His breathing sped up however, and he was looking at her with dark eyes.

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, bringing her lips a little closer to his.

Four excruciating beats of her heart went by without a sound or a hint of movement. Disappointment threatened to overwhelm her again, and a part of her wanted to open her eyes and stop this stupid attempt. But her mulish, Arya-like side made her keep them closed.

And then it happened.

His grip on her shoulder became firmer, and his other hand settled on her waist, tugging her closer. He left a bit of space between their bodies, not embracing her fully, but Sansa didn’t care. 

He had closed the gap between their lips. 

_Gods, is this really happening?_

The dry press of his mouth against her own was so strange, so intimate, and so _new._ It was nothing like she had imagined, and she trembled as she tried to pay attention to every detail of it. His lips were surprisingly soft, especially in comparison to the bristly skin around them. His breath was furnace-hot as he exhaled through his nose, and his hands were so warm and heavy where he gripped her. She inhaled deeply, committing the clean, leather and soap scent of him to her memory; her lips tingling as her heart soared.

Much too soon he pulled away.

“Will that suffice?” he asked, swallowing. 

_Are his hands shaking?_ Hers were.

Sansa closed the gap between them, wanting a true embrace. She kissed his neck chastely - it was the easiest place to reach - and hid her face against his doublet, inhaling deeply once again. It smelled new, and the material was sinfully soft against her skin.

Stannis went rigid, but did not push her away.

“Yes,” she said. They parted, and though it was difficult to tell in the firelight, Sansa was sure his face was deeply flushed. “But I should like to do that again.” She watched him carefully for any hint that he might disapprove. His brows lifted momentarily, and his hands twitched. She got the sense that he didn’t believe she was telling the truth. Or maybe he hadn’t liked it enough to wish to do it again? Her heart dropped into her gut. “Was it - was it right? I didn’t do it wrong, did I?”

Stannis shook his head firmly and pinned his hands to his sides. It looked very odd. “I must go.” His tone brooked no argument.

Her insides in knots, Sansa followed Stannis to the door.

With his hand on the door handle, Stannis turned to look at her. 

Sansa unclasped her hands and smoothed her skirts, straightening her back.

His gaze lingered on her face before dipping to her neckline and lower, only to dart back up quickly. He inhaled sharply. “Good night, Sansa.”

Blushing, Sansa averted her eyes. “Good night.”

When he was gone she lifted two fingers to her lips, touching them very lightly.


	15. Cyvasse

“So? How did it go?” Jeyne asked, rubbing her hands together and then blowing on them, her breath misting in the freezing morning air.

The sky was still dark as the sun would not come up for some hours yet, and the Narrow Sea sounded unusually loud without the daily noise of the city to compete with it.

Sansa had only just arrived on the battlements overlooking the training yard, bundled up in all of her warmest things. Her maids hadn’t thought she’d need so many layers, but Sansa knew better than to be fooled by this sort of still, cloudless winter weather. Cloudless meant _cold._ “Good morning to you, too,” she said, suppressing a yawn. Somehow it never got easier to get up at this hour.

“ _Tell me,_ ” Jeyne demanded in a sing-song voice.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa said, her eyes sweeping over the torch-lit training yard.

“He’s not here yet,” Jeyne said, glancing down at the yard, too. “And don’t be coy.”

“He’s not?” Sansa frowned, suddenly wide awake. She had never made it outside before Stannis.

“I’m sure he’s just been delayed by an early raven or something,” Jeyne waved a hand impatiently. “Now, _please_ tell me what happened after Devan and I left last night. I’ll die if you don’t.”

Sansa suppressed a smile. “You won’t die.”

“Fine, I won’t,” Jeyne huffed. “But I might strangle you.” 

She was no longer able to keep her smile at bay, and the butterflies from the night before returned as if they’d never left. “We talked,” she said, enjoying the excitement on Jeyne’s face.

“ _And?_ ” Jeyne was practically vibrating.

“And it was really good. I think… I think we understand each other better.”

Jeyne’s excitement faded to something softer. “I’m glad,” she said, reaching for Sansa’s hands and clasping them.

“Gods, your hands are frozen!” The cold seeped through Sansa’s gloves, and she tried to rub some warmth into Jeyne’s hands. “But thank you, I’m so glad too.”

They smiled at each other, but movement in the yard caught their attention, and for a moment they watched Ser Aron Santagar walk up to Uncle Brynden, dressed in armour. Brynden gestured for Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen to join them, and after a brief conversation they all picked up some tourney swords and began to run through familiar drills.

“I confess I’m a little surprised,” Jeyne said.

“Oh?”

“I had thought you’d use the privacy to do more than _talk._ ”

Blushing in the stinging cold was an odd sensation. Sansa glanced at the nearest guard, and decided he wouldn’t hear if she spoke quietly. She leaned very close to Jeyne’s face and said, “you mustn’t tell anyone... but we kissed.”

Jeyne tore one hand from Sansa’s grip and clamped it over her mouth, giving a muffled squeal.

“Ssh!” Sansa said, glancing at the guard again.

“How was it?” Jeyne asked through the gaps between her fingers.

“It was lovely,” Sansa said. Ser Aron gestured at Ser Jallen, and Ser Jallen nodded and demonstrated a strange maneuver with his sword in response. “But very proper and also a little...” Ser Aron copied the movement now, his sword low to the ground, his arm quick. “... Intimidating.” 

Jeyne was looking at her with a rapt expression. “Really?”

Uncle Brynden seemed to be encouraging Ser Arvin to learn the trick from the two Dornishmen.

“I think it’s because he’s so very tall.” Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen were now performing that low, quick sword slash in unison as both her uncle and Ser Aron watched. Ser Arvin was struggling to keep up with Ser Jallen, but did not give up. “And of course because he is the king. But I - I liked it a lot.” She glanced at Jeyne, biting her lip. “I wish it had gone on for much longer.”

“I know what you mean,” Jeyne said, sighing wistfully. “Devan’s kisses are always much too short. But soon we shall kiss as much as we like!”

“You must be nervous,” Sansa said, her heart beating quicker at the thought of her own approaching wedding. _How can eight months seem like such a vast stretch of time at one moment, and like no time at all, the next?_

Below it seemed as if Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen were about to spar.

“I am a little,” Jeyne admitted, “but I’m sure it will all be wonderful. You mustn’t distract me, though. I want to hear more about your kiss.”

“There’s nothing more to tell,” Sansa said, still blushing. “I asked him to kiss me, and he did. It was over before I knew it, and when I told him I should like to kiss him again he didn’t seem to believe me.” Ser Arvin and Ser Jallen had settled into battle stances, facing each other. “I’m afraid he didn’t like it as much as I did,” she finished in a small voice. Something thick and heavy had settled in her stomach, and she couldn’t look at Jeyne.

“Did he seem displeased?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa thought about it, going over the kiss and its following moments in her mind, her heart fluttering. “No,” she said. Ser Arvin was attacking Ser Jallen energetically, but Ser Jallen lithely dodged every blow. “He seemed… flustered.”

Jeyne made an amused sound. “I don’t think you need to worry.” Uncle Brynden shouted something at Ser Arvin. “You’ll probably be beating him off with a stick, soon.” Ser Arvin attempted to use the low, quick sword movement he had just learnt, but Ser Jallen jumped to avoid it. Almost the moment he recovered from the jump, Ser Jallen executed a much smoother version of the move he had just avoided, catching Ser Arvin’s shins. “... Because he’ll want to kiss you every spare moment.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa glanced at the nearest guard again, her heart pounding. _Did he hear?_

“What?” Jeyne said, batting her eyelashes innocently at Sansa. “It’s just what I think.”

Right as Ser Arvin sat up, Stannis, Devan, and Ser Allard strode into the training yard, heading straight for Uncle Brynden. The three of them stood by as Ser Jallen clapped Ser Arvin on the back and gave him a hand up. Ser Arvin did not seem upset by his tumble; he was smiling and speaking animatedly with Ser Jallen as if nothing had happened.

Jeyne waved at Devan, and Devan waved back with so much enthusiasm that Stannis noticed and looked up. His usual cross expression fell away for a moment, a nearby torch catching his eyes and filling them with firelight.

She stopped breathing, her lips tingling. 

He nodded at her, his gaze lingering until something Ser Arvin said made him snap his head around to look at the knight instead.

“Oh, His Grace looks mad,” Jeyne said, half worried, half gleeful. “What do you think Ser Arvin said?” 

Sansa didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the two men in the yard, her stomach doing somersaults. Ser Arvin’s posture was relaxed - perhaps a touch cocky - while Stannis had gone rigid.

Jeyne was blowing on her hands again, rubbing them together. “I think they’re going to fight.”

“Do you want to borrow my gloves?” Sansa asked distractedly, not taking her eyes off Stannis and Ser Arvin. Jeyne was right; they were about to spar. Sansa had never seen them fight each other, but that did not necessarily mean they never had. But as most of the other men in the yard stopped their drills and drifted closer to watch, she was sure this was at least a rare occurrence.

Ser Arvin made the first move, and just as when he had attacked Ser Aron, he began with a flurry of energetic slashes. Stannis avoided them with a spin that seamlessly transformed into an attack of his own. Ser Arvin blocked it with his sword, but it was clearly no easy feat; the clash of their swords was so loud that Sansa heard it as if she were standing beside them. Next second, they both backed away from one another, great clouds of steam rising up from their mouths. They circled for a little while, and again it was Ser Arvin who lost his patience first. This time it was Stannis who was forced to block a heavy blow, the blunted edges of their tourney swords singing as they met. Ser Arvin recovered quickly however, and then he was crouching low -

“Isn’t that what he and Ser Jallen were just practising?” Jeyne asked, grabbing Sansa’s arm excitedly.

It was.

Stannis was caught off guard by the quick, low blow to his shins, and just as Ser Arvin had earlier, he ended up on the ground. Ser Arvin laughed and turned to grin at Ser Jallen and some of his other friends, but that was a grave mistake. Stannis got up after spending less than two seconds on the ground, baring his teeth and raising his sword. He charged with a roar, and though Ser Arvin turned around, he was much too late to block the attack to his waist.

 _Gods._ Sansa was sure that if Stannis had been using live steel, Ser Arvin’s guts would be spilling out, armour or no.

Despite having landed such a vicious blow, Stannis showed no sign of stopping. He raised his sword again, and again, landing more than half his attacks. Jeyne hid her face in her hands and made a distressed sound. Once, Sansa might have felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that she, unlike Jeyne, was brave enough to keep watching, but that had been a long time ago. Her stomach tightened, but she made herself breathe. _He won’t kill him._

Sure enough, less than a minute went by before Ser Arvin - having collapsed to the ground - shouted, “I yield!” in a tone that was both amused and a little panicked. Stannis stopped attacking at once and backed away, glancing up at the battlements for the first time since he’d nodded at her. Great plumes of vapour were rising up from his nose and mouth, and the look on his face was arresting. 

Fury mixed with triumph.

Something deep inside her clenched in on itself and a way that left her feeling restless and odd, and she inhaled sharply, her nose burning with the cold, her heart racing.

The moment passed, and Stannis turned to help a groaning Ser Arvin to his feet.

Uncle Brynden walked over to the pair of them and said something Sansa did not hear. Ser Arvin walked away soon after, walking slowly and clutching his side. Ser Jallen went with him.

“He looks quite hurt, doesn’t he?” Jeyne said fretfully, following Ser Arvin with her eyes. “Do you think he’ll be able to dance at my wedding feast?”

“I’m sure he’ll be well after a bit of rest,” Sansa said. Her heart still hadn’t slowed.

Brynden called Ser Aron, Devan, and Ser Allard over to where he and Stannis were standing, and after a few demonstrations from Ser Aron, they all began practising the maneuver that had put Stannis on the ground. Ser Gerald appeared after they had been practising for a little while, stretched, yawned, and then joined them as if he’d been there all along.

“I think Devan’s almost got it,” Jeyne said, watching her betrothed avidly.

They did not practise for a very long time - likely due to the cold - and soon the group broke up to spar. Stannis was left without a partner, and to Sansa’s surprise, he gestured for her to come down. Jeyne decided to stay on the battlements to watch Devan’s sparring match with Ser Gerald.

“Take my gloves, then,” Sansa insisted before she found the stairs.

Sansa’s stomach was doing somersaults again by the time she was face to face with Stannis. 

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning.” Stannis wiped his hands on his breeches, the smell of his sweat mixing with the smell of leather and metal and cold morning air. His expression had returned to normal, but there were still traces of the heat of battle in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say more, but did not get the chance to speak.

“Little Sansa!” Uncle Brynden exclaimed, coming over to join them. “Were you watching all this time?” He gave a bark of laughter. “Did you see His Grace fall on his arse?”

Stannis glared at Brynden, snapping his mouth shut.

“I saw that you were all learning something clever from Ser Aron Santagar,” _or from Ser Jallen, perhaps?_ “Is it a Dornish trick?”

“Why don’t we ask him?” Brynden said, waving Ser Aron over and raising his voice to say, “the lady wants to know whether that trick you taught us is Dornish!”

Ser Aron gave a courtly bow when he reached them. “Lady Sansa,” he said smoothly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” His accent was all cinnamon and silk, and now that she was up close, she could see how finely made his armour was. His breastplate was decorated with amber gemstones, well polished, and spotlessly clean.

Stannis scowled, now glaring at Ser Aron.

She took a step closer to Stannis. “Lovely to meet you,” she said, keeping her voice polite but not overly warm. She could feel Stannis’s eyes burning into her.

“Well? Is the trick Dornish or not?” Brynden asked.

“I suppose it is, yes. Though until yesterday I had only ever seen it performed with a spear,” Ser Aron said.

“Are spears more commonly used than swords in Dorne?” Sansa asked, curious.

Ser Aron shrugged. “It varies. Personally, I find it best to know my way around as many weapons as possible. Life is much like a game of cyvasse, my lady. If one only ever moves the most powerful piece, one can easily end up losing.”

Sansa caught his meaning, but wished she understood his reference to cyvasse better. She barely even knew what the different pieces of the game were, much less which ones were the most powerful. “Do you play cyvasse?” 

Ser Aron’s eyes lit up. “Indeed, I -”

“I’d like a word with my betrothed,” Stannis said, cutting Ser Aron off.

Her uncle harrumphed. “Is there anything you need to say to her that you can’t say with us present?”

“Yes,” Stannis said in a flat tone, meeting Brynden’s eyes coolly.

Brynden opened his mouth and looked at Ser Aron as if to silently ask the Donishman whether Stannis had really just said that. Ser Aron merely raised a brow. Closing his mouth, Brynden turned to face Stannis again. “I’ve got my eye on you two,” he said, though he sounded more amused than threatening. He put an arm around Ser Aron’s shoulder and walked several paces away, asking him about spears.

“I have decided to give you and Shireen your first cyvasse lesson today,” Stannis announced as soon as Brynden and Ser Aron were out of earshot. He spoke quickly, almost as if he was worried that someone else might come along to interrupt them. 

(As Ser Gerald had just finished defeating Devan in their sparring match, and was now looking over at them with interest, Sansa thought Stannis was wise to worry.)

Registering what Stannis had said, Sansa fought the urge to raise her eyebrows. She had almost given up on those lessons. _Why is he suddenly keen to start teaching us now?_ “Both of us together?”

“Today; yes,” Stannis said. “It will save time to explain the rules to both of you at once. But in the future we will practise separately.” He rubbed his hands on his breeches again, no longer meeting her eyes. “It is a game for two.”

She nodded, her stomach swooping. “That sounds lovely.”

There was an awkward moment of silence. Stannis was staring at her again, the light of a nearby torch casting flickering shadows over his face.

“Perhaps the lesson should take place in Shireen’s solar?” she suggested when it seemed Stannis would not say anything else soon. “I was going to meet her and her ladies there for tea this afternoon in any case.”

“Yes,” he said, still staring.

Blushing under his intense gaze, Sansa glanced at her uncle. Brynden raised his eyebrows at her and made a gesture with his hands that obviously meant that he wanted her to stand further away from Stannis. Rebellion reared like an untamed horse within her, and she took a determined step closer to Stannis, touching his arm. “I look forward to our lesson.” She angled her head up, and left her lips a fraction parted.

Stannis’s nostrils flared, and he flexed his arm beneath her hand. He nodded again, more slowly, his eyes fixed on her lips.

Someone whistled, and a few of the men laughed. Stannis hastily took a step away from her, grimacing.

Turning her head in the direction the whistle had come from, Sansa saw Ser Gerald grinning at her. She gave him a pointed glare and promised herself that she would not speak to him for a week. _Pillock._

Stannis cleared his throat. “I will see you this afternoon, then.” He was looking everywhere except at her.

But Sansa didn’t care. Despite her uncle and Ser Gerald being _intolerable_ , she now knew Jeyne was right.

_Stannis still wants to kiss me._

***

Tea with Shireen, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa was a much happier affair than it had been for the past two weeks. Sansa had been working so hard to make sure they didn’t realise how unhappy she had been, that she had barely been able to taste the lovely food Shireen always served, much less listen properly to the conversation around the table. But now everything was different, and she could not stop smiling. Life just seemed so _wonderful._

The girls were all excited for Sansa and Shireen to finally start their cyvasse lessons.

“Ser Jallen has been teaching me a little,” Carellen confessed, blushing. “It will be nice to play with you both once you’ve learned.”

“Yes, and you shall have to teach us!” Alynna exclaimed, gesturing at herself and Marissa.

Sansa laughed. “Soon we shall do nothing but play cyvasse all day long, and our embroidery will be horribly neglected.”

By the time Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa left, Sansa’s face was aching from having smiled and laughed more than she’d done in weeks.

“It’s good to see you so happy today,” Shireen said as they settled down to wait for Stannis to arrive. “You have been sad of late.”

Flushing, Sansa looked away from Shireen’s earnest face. “Have I?” she said as lightly as she could.

“I thought perhaps you were missing your family,” Shireen said quietly.

“I suppose I have been missing them,” Sansa said, reaching out to clasp Shireen’s hand. “But I have you now.”

They smiled at each other. Outside the sky was still clear and cloudless, but the sun was already beginning to set. The shadows in Shireen’s solar were lengthening.

Stannis knocked on Shireen’s door himself, and opened it almost before Shireen had finished asking him to enter, clearly in the middle of speaking to the guards.

“Only one of you need stay,” he was saying in an irritated tone of voice. “We do not need three knights of the Kingsguard watching a door for an hour. Settle it between you, I do not care which one of you stays.”

Closing the door firmly behind him, Stannis headed straight for the table where she and Shireen were sitting. The servants had cleared it of their tea things, and Stannis wordlessly set about placing a board he had been carrying under one arm on the table, and then selecting pieces from a polished, wooden box and arranging them on the board.

Sansa and Shireen exchanged bemused looks.

“Welcome, Father,” Shireen said timidly. “Would you like some tea?”

“No,” he said, still arranging pieces methodically. The board was jet black, marbled with streaks of gold, and the pieces were gold and onyx.

 _Baratheon colours._ Sansa wondered whether Stannis had commissioned the board and the pieces especially, or whether it had been one of those gifts Shireen said Stannis misliked so much.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Sansa said, squeezing Shireen’s hand comfortingly under the table. “We’ve truly been looking forward to this lesson.”

Stannis grunted, but his shoulders relaxed by a margin. He finished arranging the pieces on the board, placing a screen in the middle, and sat down.

Sansa gave Shireen’s hand one last squeeze before settling into a stance she hoped looked as attentive as possible. She was determined to learn cyvasse properly.

“Cyvasse is first and foremost a game of strategy,” Stannis began abruptly, looking from her eyes to Shireen’s and back. “However, it is not _true_ military strategy.” His lip curled. “There are too many fanciful elements.” He stopped and looked at them again, clearly waiting for a response.

She and Shireen both nodded dutifully.

Stannis picked up a small, beautifully carved, onyx dragon. “This is the most powerful piece on the board,” he explained, his lips thinning with disapproval. “The dragon piece.”

Sansa recalled the latest reports Varys had shared with her about the Targaryen girl and her dragons. Was Stannis thinking of her now?

“But it is not invincible,” Stannis went on. “It may be removed by either the trebuchet or the catapult.” He pointed to the trebuchet and catapult pieces in turn. “The goal of the game is to kill the king.” He picked up a crown-shaped piece, frowning down at it. “And the game doesn’t end until he is defeated.”

Shireen glanced at Sansa in some alarm, and Sansa did her best to smile reassuringly. _It is only a game._

Stannis continued to name the different pieces and their main strengths and weaknesses, pointing at them all, glancing frequently at her and Shireen’s faces as if to assess whether they were listening

When he finished, he asked them to repeat it all back. They remembered everything except how the mountains worked.

Patiently, Stannis explained their function again.

Once he was satisfied they understood the rules, he told them to start playing against each other. “I will assist you both.”

To Sansa’s dismay, Shireen took to the game like a duck to water. Five moves in, and Stannis was already warning Sansa to guard her king properly, and remember Shireen’s elephants. He barely had to give Shireen any advice at all.

Still, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to be jealous. Not when Stannis gave Shireen a satisfied nod when she cleverly trapped Sansa’s dragon between a catapult and a trebuchet. Shireen glowed, sitting up straighter in her chair and smiling in a way that brightened not only her eyes, but the very room around her.

At the end of the lesson - Sansa’s king soundly defeated - they were all surprised to find that the sun had gone down, though the sky was still orange with its dying light.

“I should go,” Stannis said, frowning at the sky outside the window. “I have a dinner meeting.”

He packed the pieces up quickly as Sansa and Shireen excitedly discussed the game, both of them eager to play again.

“It was so much more enjoyable than I expected,” Shireen said, smiling from ear to ear.

“Of course it was; you won!”

Shireen ducked her head, blushing. “I was lucky.”

“No, you were clever.” Sansa glanced at Stannis. “Don’t you think she was clever?”

“She was,” he said seriously. “Though there is still room for improvement.” He fixed Shireen with a piercing look, which she answered with a frightened, wide-eyed one.

“Of course,” Sansa said, soothingly. “It was only our first game.”

“True enough,” Stannis said.

Shireen saw them to the door like a proper hostess, and thanked them for their company in just the sort of way Septa Mordane would have approved of. Sansa gave the expected responses while Stannis made do with a nod.

Outside the solar door, Ser Barristan awaited.

“Where are Ser Allard and Ser Gerald?” Stannis asked, his tone impatient.

“You said one guard would suffice during your lesson, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan reminded him.

“They should have returned by now. I won’t leave the princess unguarded.”

“I could stay here,” Ser Barristan suggested mildly. “And perhaps Your Grace would consider escorting Lady Sansa to her apartments? I believe Ser Gerald awaits her there.” His face was as serious as ever, but when Sansa met his eyes, she saw an unusual gleam.

_Does he know we’re not arguing anymore?_

“Yes,” she heard herself saying, her eyes sliding over to Stannis. “I’ve seen you in the training yard; I’m sure I’d be just as safe with you as I would be with any knight of the Kingsguard.” She recalled his look of fury and triumph after his sparring match with Ser Arvin, her heart beating harder.

Stannis stared at her, then at Ser Barristan, and then back at her. “... Very well.”

He offered her his arm and she took it without hesitation.

They walked without speaking for a while, entering a shadowy corridor. A few times she caught Stannis casting her sidelong glances. His arm was solid and warm. It was strange to think it could be so still beneath her fingers now - so harmless - when only hours ago it had wielded a sword in that furious way.

“That was an… impressive fight you had with Ser Arvin this morning,” she said at length, observing his reaction from beneath lowered lashes.

He stiffened, and gave a noncommittal grunt.

They walked on for a few steps.

“I hope you don’t think he was being a goose?”

“What?” Stannis frowned at her.

“Letting you win.”

Understanding dawned, and shook his head, looking at her strangely. “No.” He fell silent, but glanced at her a few times, clearly on the verge of saying more. “I believe it is your great-uncle’s work,” he finally said, a note of grudging respect in his tone. “The flock of geese is becoming somewhat competent.”

 _Ser Aron Santagar helped too,_ she thought, but did not argue. “I’m glad to hear it. But I’d be surprised if Ser Arvin challenged you again any time soon.” She thought of the succession of blows Stannis had dealt the knight and winced internally. _Poor Arvin._ A part of her wondered whether Stannis had become so enraged with Ser Arvin only because he’d been tripped, or whether Stannis was still angry with Ser Arvin because of what had happened the night of her nameday dinner. 

_’You let one of them touch you.’_ A shiver ran down her spine.

Stannis gave her a suspicious sidelong glance. “Why?”

“I expect he’ll need several days to recover from today’s bruises.” She tried to keep her tone light and free of censure, but was not certain she managed it. “Jeyne’s deeply concerned he won’t be able to dance at her wedding feast.” Stannis rolled his eyes upwards. “How about you? Are you hurt at all?”

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Sansa said, squeezing his arm. “I do not like to see you injured.”

Another sidelong look and a frown. “You needn’t fear for your position. Despite your great-uncle’s efforts, I’m not going to get myself killed in the training yard.”

Her chest tightened. “My position is not what concerns me,” she said, dropping her hand from his arm, no longer walking. They were alone in a corridor, but Sansa still kept her voice low. Lord Varys had eyes and ears everywhere.

Stannis came to a halt too, turning to face her. He stared at her, jaw working, his eyes a storm of suspicion and something else… something fragile. “Am I expected to believe that?” He was keeping his voice low, too.

A wave of sadness passed through her, and her heart grew heavy. _First he doesn’t believe I want him to kiss me, and now he is convinced my first concern upon his death would be for my position?_ She shook her head slowly. “I am a Stark of Winterfell,” she said, reminding herself of the fact as much as she was reminding him. “Whether you live or die, I will always be a Stark of Winterfell. That is my position.”

“True enough.” His eyes bored into hers. “But you will not be queen if I die before we are wed.”

_I have survived that before._

She looked down at her clasped hands. “If you die before we wed, Shireen will have lost both her mother and her father before her thirteenth nameday.” _And her fool._ The mere thought was nearly enough to break her heart. She could not imagine the pain of losing one parent - much less both - and she would not wish it on anyone. Especially not on anyone as dear as Shireen.

When she looked up at Stannis again, her heart stopped. His face was frozen, and his eyes were a pair of open wounds covered by the thinnest film of ice.

 _Steffon and Cassana Baratheon both died when he was young._ The blood drained from her face. How could she have forgotten about his parents? Her stomach tightening, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, Stannis was staring into the middle distance, his expression completely closed off.

 _He must still miss them._ Her heart ached. Breathing hurt.

Before she could think it through, she rose up to the tips of her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was very hot against her nose, and the bristles of his close-cropped beard prickly beneath her lips.

He inhaled sharply, but did not protest.

When she had retreated, his gaze was no longer unfocused. He brought a hand to his cheek, staring at her in startlement. Blinking the surprise away, he dropped his hand, flexing his fingers restlessly.

“Let us not speak of death,” she said, winding her hand around his arm once more and steering him back onto their recently abandoned path.

If they had not been in a silent corridor, she would not have heard the shudder in his breath as he inhaled.

After they had taken a few steps, Stannis rested his free hand on top of her fingers where they curled around his arm. It was a warm, but brief touch, over almost before it began. She squeezed his arm in return, glancing up to meet his eyes for a moment. He swallowed, but said nothing. They both broke eye contact in unison.

Though they walked the rest of the way to her apartments in silence, Sansa knew they had reached a perfect, wordless understanding.

That evening, Sansa lit candles for Steffon and Cassana in the royal sept.


	16. A Wedding Feast

The days leading up to Jeyne and Devan’s wedding passed by in a blur of last minute preparations. There was no time for cyvasse lessons or breakfasts with the king, and Sansa did not make it to the training yard at all. She barely had time for her lessons with the members of the small council, and often found herself completely incapable of paying attention. She was spending a lot of time with Shireen and her ladies however, as they were helping Jeyne with her wedding preparations, too.

“Have you all decided what you will wear?” Jeyne asked, appearing surprisingly relaxed given that she would be married on the morrow.

Sansa, Shireen, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa all looked up from their embroidery. They were just finishing the details of a banner that was to hang behind the high table at the wedding feast. The colours of House Seaworth and House Poole were featured, as well as the blue circle and the onion, and Jeyne’s name and Devan’s.

“Of course,” Sansa said, putting her needle down. “Weeks ago.”

The others all nodded. There hadn’t been a feast in the Red Keep since the Tyrells and Sansa’s family had left, and the excitement in the air was tangible.

“I know we spoke of it at some point,” Jeyne said, smiling apologetically. “I’ve just had so much on my mind. Was it the cloth-of-gold gown?”

Sansa shook her head. “I’m going to wear Stark colours.” She and Shireen had discussed what they would wear at length, and they both agreed her grey silks would complement her tiara best. Shireen on the other hand would be debuting a new, luxuriously purple gown, and her ladies were all wearing lavender to match.

“Oh.” Jeyne blinked. “But you look so beautiful in the cloth-of-gold.”

Alynna pursed her lips. “She might be wise to steer clear of the colours of House Baratheon for the time being.”

Carellen giggled, but clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

Sansa and Jeyne looked at one another in puzzlement. Shireen and Marissa appeared confused, too.

“Why?” Jeyne asked.

“Rumour has it that His Grace had a blazing row with Ser Brynden Tully not two days ago,” Alynna said, leaning forward and lowering her voice.

_What?_

“Apparently, the king wishes to move the date of his - your - wedding closer,” Alynna went on, giving Sansa a significant look. “He wanted Ser Brynden to speak to Lord Stark on his behalf, but Ser Brynden refused.”

Sansa’s stomach flipped over. _Can this be true?_

“Which is why Sansa shouldn’t tempt His Grace,” Carellen said, raising a brow. “If he sees her in his colours he might decide he’s waited long enough.” She stifled another giggle and looked at Jeyne. “Perhaps you should have your wedding bed guarded?”

Jeyne’s mouth fell open. “Why should I have my wedding bed guarded?”

“His Grace might decide to do what his brother did when he married Queen Selyse,” Carellen said.

“My father wouldn’t do anything dishonourable,” Shireen said quietly, steel in her voice.

Carellen had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s silly gossip. Of course he wouldn’t.”

They all fell silent, and though Sansa wondered what Robert - for it could not have been Renly - had done when Stannis married Selyse, she did not ask. When the conversation moved on to the wedding feast’s menu, and which dishes they were all the most excited to try, she forgot all about the matter. 

She did not forget what Alynna had said about Stannis’s row with her uncle, however. She spent half the night tossing and turning, flushed and fitful, wondering whether it was true.

***

The wedding ceremony was a small, intimate affair. The royal sept could not comfortably hold the two hundred guests expected at the feast, so aside from the Seaworth family and Jeyne’s closest friends at court, it was only attended by the king himself, the princess, and the members of the small council.

Liram Mullynn, Sansa’s steward and Jeyne’s maternal uncle, took Vayon Poole’s place, leading her to the marriage altar with pride and happiness shining in his eyes. Jeyne’s brilliant smile lit up the sept, and she was more beautiful than ever before in her maiden cloak of white and blue; every part of it stitched with care and love.

Devan, looking somehow much taller than the last time Sansa had seen him, seemed to be bursting with joy. He wore the finest of clothing, though he seemed to share his father’s - and the king’s - taste for simpler fashions. His doublet was not burdened by jewels or scrollwork, but it had been painstakingly embroidered with patterns that put Sansa in mind of the ocean and its creatures.

When the time came for Devan to cloak Jeyne in Seaworth colours he seemed to want to move much faster than propriety dictated, and kept having to slow himself down. He glanced frequently at Jeyne’s eyes as if to make sure she was still there with him, but his hands were steady and sure. Sansa’s heart fluttered when he pressed a tender kiss to Jeyne’s cheek as he fastened the clasp about her neck.

_Will the moments slip by so quickly when it’s me in Jeyne’s place?_

_Will I want them to?_

Sansa tried, but she couldn’t quite imagine Stannis looking nervous and excited on their wedding day.

_And yet, if the rumours are to be believed, he is eager for it to take place._

Sansa found her uncle in the small crowd of gathered guests. He did not look as if he had been rowing with anyone of late, misty-eyed and smiling as he was. She glanced over at Stannis instead, examining his stoic expression. The corners of his lips were downturned, his brow set in a serious line, but she could tell that he was not in a dark mood. He was simply paying close attention to the proceedings. 

As if he could sense her watching him, his eyes shifted to meet hers squarely, pinning her in place. He held her gaze for what might have been seconds, though it felt like an hour, before turning his attention back to the septon. 

She took several deep, quiet breaths.

After the ceremony’s conclusion, Sansa smiled and congratulated Jeyne and Devan along with the other guests, but found herself relieved when the circumstances didn’t allow for any proper conversation in the sept. The restless, nervous energy that had kept her up half the night had settled in her breast, and it lingered as Stannis escorted her and Shireen to the feast.

The Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand had been decorated lavishly, its trestle tables groaning beneath the weight of gleaming silver cups, plates, and candlesticks. Stannis led her and Shireen directly to their seats at the high table on the far end of the long room, where Jeyne, Devan, Davos, and Marya would also be sitting once they finished greeting the wedding guests.

Sansa sat stiffly, her every sense attuned to Stannis even though she was not letting herself look directly at him. She was staring straight ahead, but still trying to observe him with her peripheral vision. He, on the other hand, was glancing frequently at her, his brow furrowed.

“Are you well?” Stannis asked, leaning towards her and speaking close to her ear.

“Yes, of course,” she said, trying to arrange her expression into something easy and pleasant.

“Is it the tiara?” Stannis asked, frowning at the tiara as if it had done him some insult. “Is it hurting you?”

Sansa’s hand went up to touch the silver tiara on her head. She had quite forgotten that she had been wearing it; her maid had fastened it very cleverly, and the fit was perfect. “Not at all,” Sansa said, her shoulders relaxing. “I hardly feel it.”

Stannis looked away for a moment and cleared his throat. “It suits you.”

Her heart missed a beat. Coming from him, that was extravagant praise. Sitting on Sansa’s other side, Shireen nodded and smiled in agreement. She was wearing a delicate tiara of her own: gold filigree with a single onyx gem at its centre. Stannis was not wearing a crown.

“I hope you don’t mind that I wore Stark colours to match it,” Sansa said, glancing down at her silver-grey gown. She hesitated, watching him closely. “I did consider black and gold.” 

Shireen went very still in her seat, and Sansa could feel her eyes on her.

Stannis’s stance remained unchanged on the other hand, and his face betrayed nothing. “Stark and Tully colours,” he corrected her, his eyes drifting briefly towards her neck.

Her hand went to her necklace. It was the one Uncle Edmure had sent her for a nameday gift. She hadn’t worn it since the night she had received it. _Not since Ser Arvin put it on me._ Her stomach tightened. “Do you mislike it?”

His face was still unreadable. “No.”

They lapsed into silence. A steady stream of people trickled into the hall, filling it with a low murmur of voices that quickly grew into loud chatter that echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling.

Shireen eventually commented on the weather. Today it was cool, crisp, and overcast, but not snowing. A good sign for the happy couple, they all agreed.

“I’m glad you chose a purple gown,” Sansa said to Shireen once the subject of the weather had been exhausted. “It brings out something violet in your eyes.”

“Thank you.” Shireen glanced shyly from Sansa to Stannis. “Did you notice my buttons match the ones on Father’s doublet?”

“Do they?” Sansa took the opportunity to examine Stannis’s doublet closely. It was one of the finest she had ever seen. The material appeared softer than velvet, richer than silk, and blacker than the deepest night. It had been made to fit the king’s frame exquisitely, drawing attention to his broad shoulders. The buttons that matched Shireen’s gown were not gold as one might have expected, but silver, delicately wrought by a master silversmith. Sansa realised she was staring, and hurriedly averted her gaze. “It’s a lovely doublet. I should like to know who made it.”

“Shireen knows.” Stannis said, shifting in his seat.

Sansa nodded and smiled at Shireen. “Perhaps I should consider your seamstress now that I must order my wedding gown.” She glanced quickly at Stannis, gauging his reaction. “I should have found a seamstress weeks ago, really.”

Shireen frowned, but didn’t say anything. They had discussed the merit of various seamstresses on many different occasions, and Shireen knew as well as Sansa did that she had almost settled on the one who had made her cloth-of-gold gown.

Stannis drank some water from his cup, staring into it. “The wedding will not be held for another eight months.”

Was there a bitter edge to those words, or was she imagining things?

“That’s not a lot of time,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Some preparations are already well underway.” It was true; the royal cooks were already pestering her with questions about her wishes for the menu.

Stannis grunted, and still would not meet her eyes.

The last of the guests arrived, and Jeyne and Devan made their way to the high table, Davos and Marya following close behind. They took their seats, and Jeyne cast Sansa an excited smile and a wave. Sansa waved back, smiling distractedly.

 _Perhaps I should just ask Uncle Brynden whether Stannis truly asked for an earlier wedding?_ Her subtle attempts to get it out of Stannis had not worked at all, and she did not dare ask him directly. Not about this.

The first course arrived - crab meat, artfully arranged on a plate with dollops of a buttery, fragrant sauce that was thick with herbs - and Jeyne happily explained to Stannis that every course would feature something edible from the sea. 

“Or onions,” Sansa added.

“Of course,” Jeyne said, grinning.

Davos laughed. “Really?” Beside him, Marya was shaking her head, amusement and a touch of exasperation in her eyes.

“It seemed appropriate,” Devan said, failing to look remotely serious.

Stannis let out a small, amused sort of huff but said nothing.

Conversation flowed easily with Jeyne and Devan at the centre of the high table, acting as a bridge between Stannis, Sansa, and Shireen on one side, and Davos and Marya on the other.

As more and more courses came and went, singers and fools entertained the guests. Sansa found the fool with the trained dog particularly amusing. Especially since it seemed the dog was treated kindly. The singers sang mostly of love and romance, though they started to sing bawdier tunes as the evening wore on.

After the final dessert - a massive, elaborately decorated honey cake - one of the long tables was dismantled, and the benches were shoved up against the wall to make space for dancing. Jeyne and Devan got up to lead the dance, glowing with happiness as they took their places at the centre of the floor. 

A sharp longing tugged at Sansa’s heartstrings, and she looked down at her plate. She hadn’t finished her honey cake.

Davos stood, giving a deep bow to his lady wife. “Shall we, my dear?”

Lady Marya, flushed with wine and good food, laughed and called him a silly man, but accepted his proffered hand.

Maric appeared to whisk Shireen off to dance a moment later, leaving Sansa alone with Stannis.

She chanced a glance at him. He caught her looking, but did not hold her gaze. Instead he stared straight ahead, his jaw working. She hurriedly did the same, watching as the dancers lined up; men on one side, women on the other. Her longing intensified. She so dearly loved to dance, and it had been _months_ since she’d had the opportunity. She glanced at him and then around the hall. She could not see anyone trying to catch her eye or boldly making his way over to her. She fidgeted.

“Would you like to dance?” Stannis asked quietly, still staring directly ahead, his shoulders tense.

Sansa’s heart leapt. 

_’If I ever wish to dance with you, I will ask.’_

“Yes, please,” she said, doing everything in her power to keep from jumping to her feet at once. At this moment she did not care what his reasons for asking were - though she hoped it was desire more than duty - or whether he’d been rowing with her uncle; it was her best friend’s wedding, and she wanted to dance.

They rose to line up with the other dancers, and Sansa was unable to stifle a bright, joyful smile when Jeyne winked at her.

The music swelled, and the dance began.

Stannis moved well, even if his expression was a touch pinched, and Sansa relaxed into the rhythm, certain that she need not worry about him getting lost somewhere along the line.

“They look so happy,” Sansa said when she was close enough to Stannis to be heard.

“I presume you’re referring to the bride and groom?”

The choreography required them to part ways for a few moments. Sansa answered him when they met again. “Yes.”

“They are well suited,” Stannis said, face impassive.

She had to part with Stannis before she could answer, and this time she was meant to link arms with Devan.

“This is the best day of my life,” Devan said, his skin flushed and his eyes bright.

“As it should be!” Sansa said, smiling widely.

She linked arms with a few other men in turn as required. Ser Gordon complimented her dress, Maric asked her to save him a dance for later, and Ser Jallen said her Uncle Edmure would be pleased that she was wearing his gift. It was pleasant and flattering, but she was too conscious of Stannis’s eyes on her to really pay them much mind. 

Was it her imagination, or were Stannis’s hands firmer than they strictly needed to be when he had cause to touch her? She searched his eyes, but quickly forgot why. Something about his gaze wiped her mind clear of all thought; his irises were such a dark, compelling shade of blue. He lifted her, spinning in a half-circle, and set her down. She wished he could keep his hands on her waist; the contact shot through to her core in a visceral way she could not explain. Her eyes kept slipping to his lips, the ghost of their kiss filling her mind, her heart racing. 

“I like this dance,” Sansa said, the words tripping from her tongue without permission.

“Well, you are... very proficient.”

“I like dancing with _you_ ,” she clarified, smiling.

He missed the next step, but made up for it quickly. She only noticed because she was watching him so closely.

They were separated again, but this time Sansa barely had time to converse with the series of partners she had to weave between. She smiled at Stannis whenever she caught sight of him, her heart still pounding.

“Courtesy dictates that it is your turn to say something,” she said when they were finally reunited, sending him a quick smile.

Stannis looked at her, and Sansa held her breath. He should have enough time to answer, but not if he continued to stare at her so.

“Does it also dictate that what I say should be courteous?” he asked, leaning in a little closer than the dance required to place his mouth next to her ear. He had straightened up before she could react to it, but a whisper of his scent and the heat of his body lingered for a beat, leaving her off-kilter and wishing the moment had lasted longer.

 _Does he mean he wishes to say something discourteous?_ Heat rose to her face and neck.

Sansa could not think of anything to say after that, and had to muster all of her concentration to even remember the steps. By the end of the dance Sansa was flushed and out of breath, and she could not keep her eyes off Stannis, who was frustratingly difficult to read.

As he escorted her back to their table, she pressed herself closer to his arm than she needed to. He gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. The muscles of his arm flexed beneath her fingers. Tugging her a little closer still? A strange, viscous heat - stronger than when they had been dancing - pulsed deep within her.

“Your Grace,” Uncle Brynden said, appearing in their path. “May I have a word with Lady Sansa?”

As if they’d been burnt, she and Stannis shifted until the distance between them was more proper. But Sansa did not let go of his arm.

Stannis’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Can’t it wait?” There was a sharp edge to his voice that suggested to Sansa that what he really meant to say was: ‘go away if you value your life’.

Brynden did not look intimidated in the least, and kept his voice pleasant. “I’m afraid not.”

Stannis made a disgruntled noise and scowled. “Very well, then.”

Sansa let go of his arm with a good deal of reluctance, but her heart fluttered when he gave her a proper courtly bow before leaving her in her uncle’s company.

“You look beautiful, little Sansa,” Uncle Brynden said, offering his arm. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Very much.” She took his arm and walked along with him, though she was still following Stannis with her eyes. He had already been waylaid by a small group of stormlords she had not been introduced to. “I trust you’ve been enjoying yourself, too?”

“Yes, indeed,” Brynden said, “a fine feast.” He paused, appearing amused for a moment. “But I could have done without being sat next to Lord Florent.”

Sansa stifled a smile. “Have you come to claim a dance?” she asked, no longer able to see Stannis. A grey-haired lord in a blue doublet was blocking her view of all but the top of his head.

“I do my dancing on the battlefield, my dear,” Brynden said with a laugh. “Though I’m sure I could not hope for a better partner than yourself.” He smiled and shook his head, his eyes sparkling. “You somehow managed to make His Grace look as graceful as a swan.”

They reached the high table and sat down. Brynden took Shireen’s seat as she had yet to return. A quick glance around the hall revealed that she was standing near the dance floor, whispering with Marissa. Two squires near their age were inching closer to the pair of them, and Sansa was sure they would all soon be dancing.

“Has the king -”

“I heard a rumour -”

Sansa and her uncle had both spoken at once, and now they both fell silent. She smiled and gestured for her uncle to go first.

“Has the king spoken to you of your wedding of late?” Brynden asked, his voice unnaturally light.

“No,” Sansa said. “Well, I brought up the subject of wedding preparations over dinner earlier,” she amended, “but he didn’t say much.”

Brynden nodded, appearing distracted. “Good, good.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” He cleared his throat. “What were you saying about a rumour?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I heard a rumour that you had an argument with His Grace.”

“An argument?” Brynden’s voice was still unnaturally light.

“Yes. I’m told His Grace wanted you to speak to my father about... a certain matter, but you refused.”

Uncle Brynden met her eyes now, and they stared at each other in silence. Something in his expression shifted, and suddenly his forced lightness was gone. “You know, don’t you?” he said, shaking his head, the corners of his lips lifting. “You’re just like Cat. Don’t miss a trick.”

“Does the king truly wish to hasten our wedding?”

Brynden rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Of course he does. Have I not been saying it since I came here?”

She fought her rising blush. “Did he say why?”

Her uncle gave her a sardonic, disbelieving look in lieu of an answer. He shook his head. “The only question that matters to me is whether _you_ wish to hasten the wedding.”

She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her face was red-hot. _How can I answer that?_ She was only just beginning to understand Stannis, and though she had enjoyed their kiss and their dance, she was not certain she was ready to marry him yet.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s what I thought,” Brynden said, touching her shoulder gently. “And until you do know, I will make sure His Grace honours his agreement with your father.” He got up from Shireen’s chair, patted her shoulder once more, and walked away.

For a moment Sansa sat very still, thoughts swirling like snowflakes caught on the wind. She knew she would do her duty if it was decided that her wedding should be hastened, but if it were her choice… _I should like to know him better before I am to be his._

Sansa was not alone for long. Alynna turned up to claim Shireen’s seat, happily striking up a conversation about the food, the music, the fools, and what everyone was wearing. It was a welcome distraction, and Sansa was relieved to put her own wedding from her mind and think and talk about something frivolous for a while. From time to time she would search the hall for familiar faces, noting that Jeyne and Devan seemed determined to dance every dance, and that Shireen and Marissa were dancing quite a lot, too. Carellen, on the other hand, seemed more interested in talking to Ser Jallen and his friends than dancing. Davos and Marya were surrounded by well-wishers every time she looked, and seemed unlikely to escape any time soon. Stannis remained with the stormlords.

“You looked like you enjoyed the dance with His Grace,” Alynna said after they recovered from their fit of giggles over Lord Florent’s absurdly opulent doublet.

“I did,” Sansa said, sipping her wine to calm the sudden onslaught of butterflies within her. 

“He looked like he enjoyed it, too,” Alynna said, prompting Sansa to glance up from her cup.

“Do you think so?”

Alynna nodded. “He stared at you the whole time.”

Sansa was about to ask more questions, but was interrupted when Shireen returned, out of breath from dancing. There was a brief kerfuffle as Alynna insisted on vacating Shireen’s seat, and Shireen insisted she stay and that she would take Stannis’s chair instead. In the end Alynna got her way by convincing Shireen that she needed to go speak to Carellen.

“I’ve never danced so much in my life,” Shireen said as she sank into her chair, already reaching for her cup of water.

“I saw,” Sansa said, smiling. “Tell me about everyone you danced wi-”

A singer nearby began to sing a familiar song, and Sansa stopped talking mid-sentence. Every drop of blood drained from her face.

_There once was a king with an iron heart,_  
_who was known ne’er to smile..._

Shireen’s eyes widened with recognition, and as if they’d rehearsed it they both turned their heads to seek Stannis out. Standing over by the stormlords, he seemed to be ignoring the music.

Sansa held her breath as the singer warbled his way through the first few lines, eventually reaching the chorus.

_Oh, a cold iron heart can be melted, no man is immune to love’s heat,_  
_and no man can deny,_  
_for who’d want to try?_  
_The king’s good bride’s irresistibly sweet._

Stannis had yet to react, and she was seized by the wild hope that he would miss the song entirely. Unfortunately, the lords he was speaking to seemed to have noticed the singer. They were looking over at him and elbowing each other, grinning. Sansa’s heart sank. 

_For the king’s good bride was so lovely,_  
_the king could not help but succumb,_

_Beneath her fair bosom beat such a fair heart,_  
_the maiden was sweet as a ripe fresh-picked plum._

_Now the ne’er smiling king was enraptured,_  
_and so too every lord, squire, and knight,_

_And t’is told, that though he was old,_  
_the king smiled on his wedding night!_

The chorus was repeated a few more times, but eventually the singer fell silent. Many laughed as they applauded him, and he bowed grandly, whipping his hat off his head and waving it about in an absurdly exaggerated way. Sansa hardly marked it; she was busy staring at Stannis and trying to read his expression. But his face seemed to have turned to stone, and Sansa had no idea whether he was upset, angry, humiliated, or simply indifferent. She tried to catch his eye, but the lords he had been speaking to were talking again, and he turned his attention to them. 

Wringing her hands beneath the table, Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched as one of the lords - the broad-shouldered one with the grey hair - said something that prompted the others to laugh uproariously. Stannis was the only one who didn’t. 

Had it been some ribald jape? Told at the king’s expense? 

Finally, Stannis turned towards her and met her gaze. Her heart in her throat, she tried her best to tell him with her expression alone that she was sorry. His expression remained stony. Her stomach shrank. Would all their progress now be undone? 

“Don’t worry,” Shireen said quietly beside her. “He’s heard worse songs.” 

Her stomach turned. “About us?” The thought of there being cruder songs about herself and the king out there, songs she hadn’t even heard, was intolerable. 

Shireen’s expression closed off and she blinked rapidly before looking down at her lap, obscuring Sansa’s view of her face. “No.” 

Sansa closed her eyes and winced internally. Of course there had been cruel, rude songs in the past. About _Shireen._

She reached for Shireen’s hand and clasped it. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s nothing.” The small smile Shireen gave was only a little forced, but Sansa understood it was because Shireen was struggling to rein her emotions in, and not because she harboured her any ill will. “You should go talk to him,” Shireen said, glancing over to the place where Stannis still stood. 

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t.” She stole a quick glance at Stannis. He seemed to be listening to something one of his companions was saying, and his expression was no more cross than it usually was. “Can I?” 

“You can,” Shireen said firmly, squeezing Sansa’s hand. “Go." 

A deep breath and a steadying sip of wine later, Sansa was walking over to the group of men surrounding the king. 

“Well, if it isn’t the king’s good bride herself!” the grey-haired lord said. Up close it was easier to make out the details of his face and his doublet. She had seen that he wore blue from far away, but now she could see all the brass buckles. _Buckler. Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate._

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Buckler,” Sansa said, inclining her head. 

Lord Buckler smiled, his eyes brightening. “The pleasure is all mine.” He turned to Stannis. “Told her all about me, eh, Your Grace?” 

Stannis’s lips thinned. “I assure you, I did not.” 

“Your marvellous brass buckles gave it away,” Sansa said quickly, smiling politely. 

Lord Buckler laughed, and a few of the others joined in. “Is that so?” Lord Buckler said, still chuckling. “Tell me, can you name every man present?” 

Sansa lifted her chin and started to look carefully at the other men. Next to Lord Buckler stood a man in an orange doublet with a haughty expression, on his left there stood a man all in grey, with owl designs etched into his doublet, and finally there was a man all in black and silver, with a beautiful unicorn prancing on his chest. 

“Lord Errol, Lord Mertyns, and Lord Rogers.” She inclined her head towards each man in turn. “How do you do?” 

They all smiled and chuckled as they nodded back. 

“She is even lovelier than the song made her out to be,” Lord Buckler said, turning to grin at Stannis. “And a clever little thing.” He looked back at Sansa. “May I request the honour of dancing the next with you, my lady?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Stannis said before Sansa had a chance to answer. “The next dance is spoken for.” His words came down like a mallet, and Sansa noticed Lord Buckler take a small step back, his smile wavering. 

Sansa was quite sure that she hadn’t promised a second dance to Stannis, and she stared at him in confusion. _Has he decided that I am only ever to dance with him?_

As if the musicians had heard Stannis, the first chords of a dancing tune were struck. 

He offered her his arm and she took it, her mind still whirring with questions. 

They danced in silence for the first half of the song; Sansa was too out of sorts to think of anything to say, and Stannis did not appear inclined to speak. She exchanged polite words with the other men she was required to interact with in the course of the dance, but barely noticed who they were. 

It was unheard of for Stannis to stand up twice with a lady. Usually he never danced at all. Was this further evidence of his desire to hasten their wedding, or was there some particular objection to Lord Buckler? _He can’t be jealous of a married lord, practically Uncle Brynden’s age, can he?_

Finally Stannis broke the silence. “How did you know who they were?” 

“Their clothing,” she said. “They’re all wearing their house colours, or referencing their sigils in one way or another.” 

Stannis snorted. “You expect me to believe you know all the sigils of all the Houses in Westeros off by heart?” 

“Not all of them.” Her face warmed. “But lately I've tried to make an effort to study the Houses of the crownlands, the stormlands and those that serve Dragonstone.” She paused. “It seemed prudent." 

Stannis nodded consideringly, but they were separated before he had a chance to say anything. 

Sansa was almost too impatient to be very polite with the two men she had to interact with next, and she said nothing at all to the third one, who leered at her and said, “you truly are as sweet as a ripe fresh-picked plum, aren’t you?" 

Her stomach squirmed until she was returned to Stannis. “I’m sorry about the song earlier,” she blurted. 

Stannis raised a brow. “Did you write it?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Then you need not apologise.” 

Sansa shook her head. “But it’s so... “ No words seemed fit to describe it. She bit her lip. 

“I’ve heard worse,” Stannis said, a shadow passing over his face. “But were I to cut out the tongue of every singer and fool ever to offend me or mine, I’d have a collection of tongues, and I’d still hear offensive songs.” He snorted. “Likely more of them.” 

The steps of the song required them to part for a little while. 

“You’re not angry?” she asked as soon as she could. 

Stannis frowned. “No.” 

A weight Sansa hadn’t realised she had been carrying disappeared, and beneath it she found a fresh cache of bravery. “Why did you tell Lord Buckler this dance was spoken for?” 

Stannis’s face froze, but he recovered after a beat. “I was under the impression that you wanted a word with me. Waiting for you to dance with him would have been a waste of time.” He did not quite meet her eyes as he said this. 

“Oh.” Sansa was sure that was not the whole truth, but decided not to challenge him on the matter. 

When the song ended, Maric came over to them. 

“May I have the next, my lady?” he asked, smiling pleasantly at them both. 

Sansa glanced at Stannis, but he did not interfere as he had with Lord Buckler. She returned Maric’s smile. “You may.” 

After that, it was as if some sort of floodgate had opened. Ser Gordon, Ser Jallen, Ser Allard, and Dale all wanted to dance with her too, and she never had time to sit down or have a sip of wine in between dances. 

“Not on duty?” Sansa asked Ser Allard as they danced, finding him in much more cheerful spirits than she was used to. He tended to be the most serious of the knights of the Kingsguard. Perhaps because he was the youngest. 

“It is not every night a brother of my blood marries,” Ser Allard said. “But do not fear, my lady. My sworn brothers of the Kingsguard will see to it that you are protected. Ser Barristan has them all on high alert." 

Sansa nodded, thinking fleetingly that it was a good thing Ser Gerald was busy with his duties, and had not been in the hall during the rendition of The King’s Good Bride. 

Eventually Sansa escaped the dance floor, joining Shireen, Marissa, and the two squires she had seen them with before, for a spirited debate about what had caused the dragons to grow small and die out. But when the opportunity presented itself, Sansa asked Shireen to come sit down with her for a while. “I must rest my feet and drink something,” she said, smiling apologetically at the others. 

“So? Was it very terrible to talk to Father?” Shireen asked once they were sitting at the otherwise empty high table, keeping her voice low. 

“No.” Sansa searched the room for Stannis, and found him right where he’d been for nearly the whole evening. With the stormlords. “He said it was best to ignore offensive songs.” _Or risk ending up with a collection of tongues._

“That’s what he usually says.” 

Sansa reached for her wine and took a sip, relishing the cooling effect it had on her parched throat. “Did you see that we danced again?” 

“I did." 

“That’s unusual, isn’t it? His Grace dancing more than one dance?" 

“He usually never dances much at all if he can avoid it,” Shireen agreed. “Why do you ask?” 

Sansa blew out a breath. _This is silly._ “I’m - I’m just wondering if he only asked me to dance because he didn’t want me to accept Lord Buckler’s invitation. Do they mislike one another?” 

“Lord Buckler?” Shireen’s forehead wrinkled up for a moment. “I’m not sure I’ve met him properly. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard Father or Davos speak of him as if they mislike him.” 

“Good,” Sansa said, exhaling forcefully as if to expel her worries. 

Perhaps the deep breath helped, or perhaps it was Shireen’s comforting presence, but Sansa managed to put her worries aside. She was just starting to think about retiring - feeling pleasantly warm due partly to the wine, partly to the dancing, and partly to all the laughing she had been doing - when she heard something that turned the pleasant warmth into a raging inferno. 

“Time for the bedding!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the full song, for those of you who would like to read the complete thing:
> 
> _There once was a king with an iron heart,_   
>  _who was known ne’er to smile,_
> 
> _He conquered the throne and he conquered the crown,_  
>  _scowling all the while._  
>    
> _But the king had to marry as kings always must,_  
>  _to produce a prince and an heir,_
> 
> _So he sent for the fairest maid in the land,_   
>  _with blue eyes and auburn hair._
> 
> _Oh, a cold iron heart can be melted, no man is immune to love’s heat,_   
>  _and no man can deny,_   
>  _for who’d want to try?_   
>  _The king’s good bride’s irresistibly sweet._
> 
> _For the king’s good bride was so lovely,_  
>  _the king could not help but succumb,_
> 
> _Beneath her fair bosom beat such a fair heart,_   
>  _the maiden was sweet as a ripe fresh-picked plum._
> 
> _Now the ne’er smiling king was enraptured,_  
>  _and so too every lord, squire, and knight,_
> 
> _And t’is told, that though he was old,_   
>  _the king smiled on his wedding night!_
> 
> Thank you all again for your comments and kudos. This fic has eaten my life, and you make it worth it. ♥


	17. More Than Duty

_Should I participate?_ Sansa thought, glancing fretfully around the hall, looking for the king. _Will Stannis participate? Will he expect me to?_

It didn’t seem like the sort of thing he would enjoy, but it was tradition, wasn’t it?

She caught Jeyne’s eye from a distance, a crowd of men had picked her up, and they were already carrying her towards the Small Hall’s grand doors. Jeyne was flushed, but did not look frightened. She smiled at Sansa and then turned her head to say something that made the men roar with laughter.

Sansa’s stomach squirmed and her heart seemed to be beating all out of order.

“Aren’t you going to go?” Shireen asked, touching her shoulder gently. “The ladies have almost all left.”

“Are you going to?” Sansa asked, looking over to the gaggle of ladies chasing after Devan. She couldn’t see Devan anymore, but she could hear giggles and delighted shrieks on the other side of the doorway they were all disappearing through. Marissa and Alynna were standing near the door along with a disappointed-looking Carellen. They were watching the ladies go, seemingly set on staying behind themselves.

“Father says I’m too young,” Shireen said. There wasn’t a trace of regret in her tone. If anything, she seemed relieved.

“Can you see him? Is he with the men?” Sansa almost stood up and craned her neck.

“Father?” Shireen looked across the hall. “No, he’s over there with Davos.”

Sansa’s heart slowed a little at that, but the heat in her cheeks flared up further as their eyes met from across the hall. His expression was curiously blank, but his eyes flashed as he gazed at her.

_Is he thinking about it too?_

A vivid image of herself and Stannis filled her mind; a crowd of rowdy wedding guests pushing them into a lavish bedchamber, naked as the day they were born, their blood singing with wine and dance. _Will his kisses then be as restrained as our first?_

Breathing too quickly, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, willing the disconcerting vision away.

“I think I’m going to retire,” Shireen said, her voice light. “Good night.”

Sansa looked at her, but only caught a brief glimpse of Shireen’s serene expression as she rose from her seat and joined her ladies. Sansa hurriedly got up as well, a vague plan of following Shireen’s example forming in her mind, but she could not resist stealing another glance at Stannis.

“Lady Sansa.” 

Sansa’s heart leapt to her throat. Stannis had somehow managed to cover a great distance in a very short amount of time, and was standing right in front of her. Davos had vanished.

“My - my king.” Sansa looked around as discreetly as she could. Most of the guests she spotted seemed to be wrapped up in their own affairs, but there were a few servants milling about that might be listening as they poured wine.

“Was Shireen well? She left quickly.” The words were delivered stiffly, but there was concern in his eyes.

Sansa focused her full attention on Stannis. “Yes, quite well. She said she was going to retire.”

He gave a sharp nod, and an awkward pause followed. 

The image of the two of them, stripped naked after a bedding ceremony intruded again, and Sansa’s cheeks went up in flames. “You’re not partaking in the ceremony?” she blurted out, regretting her words immediately.

“No.”

“Nor I,” Sansa said, though of course it was perfectly obvious. _Silly goose._ Frantic to change the subject, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Was your wedding to Queen Selyse anything like this one?”

Stannis blinked at her and furrowed his brow, his expression souring. “Most weddings are alike.” He clenched his jaw, then parted his lips as if to speak, but changed his mind and scowled instead.

Sansa’s stomach dropped at the look in his eyes. She did not dare speak, but neither did she dare look away from him.

The silence stretched. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw her uncle speaking to Lord Buckler. It occurred to her that she might gather the courage to ask Stannis why he’d wanted to hasten their wedding, but she hesitated. _I’m not supposed to know about it._

“I suppose you’ve heard my bastard nephew was conceived that night?” Stannis suddenly spat out. “Did you want to hear the story from my own lips? Or do you wish to be assured that our wedding bed will be kept safe until we’re carried to it by the drunken mob?”

 _Bastard nephew?_ For a moment Sansa was confused. _Edric Storm,_ she then realised, recalling the rambunctious boy Arya had liked to run around with after Stannis had taken King’s Landing.

“You needn’t worry, my lady,” Stannis went on, scowling, “my brother is dead. He’s unlikely to sully our wedding bed from beyond the grave. Though I’ll grant you that if anyone could manage it, it would be him.”

Carellen’s words about Jeyne having her wedding bed guarded suddenly made a horrible sort of sense.

“I didn’t know,” Sansa said quietly, her insides twisting and coiling. How must it have felt? _His own brother…_ And hadn’t Edric’s mother been a Florent like Selyse? She blinked rapidly, and reached out to touch Stannis’s hand without thinking. “I’m sorry.”

Stannis gave her hand a sharp look and she withdrew it, her cheeks stinging. 

“It was no fault of yours.” He was no longer scowling, but there was bitterness in his eyes.

“I remember him,” she said softly. “Edric, I mean.” Stannis watched her, his stance tense and his expression wary. “He’s being trained to be the castellan of Storm’s End, is he not?”

“Yes,” Stannis said. “What of it?”

She thought of Jon Snow for a moment, and wondered how Selyse must have felt about Edric Storm. _It’s not the same as with Jon,_ she told herself. Edric had Florent blood, and was Stannis’s nephew. Not his son. And yet he must have been a painful reminder of a ruined wedding night. _For Stannis and Selyse both._ “It was kind of you to find him a place in Storm's End.”

Stannis snorted. “Robert failed to do his duty, so it fell to me to place him somewhere.”

It was clear what he meant. _Duty; not kindness._ And yet... Sansa distinctly recalled Edric taking lessons alongside Shireen when they had both lived in the Red Keep. Perhaps it was not kindness, but there was more than duty there. “I understand.”

He glared at her suspiciously for a moment, but then it was as if the tension drained from his features. He looked tired. Older than his years. “Perhaps you should follow my daughter’s example. The drunken louts will be returning soon.” His face twisted into an expression of distaste. “They might forget their courtesies.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Surely not if you are with me?”

Stannis opened his mouth, but closed it almost at once, blinking.

With another glance at her uncle to see that he was still firmly occupied, she took a step forward and wound herself around Stannis’s right arm. “See, now I am protected,” she said, her smile growing.

The king cleared his throat but did not attempt to extract himself from her grip. “Shall I… escort you to the Maidenvault?”

A thrill passed through her and she nodded, still smiling. “Please.”

He looked around, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. “This way,” he said, walking slowly but purposefully towards one of the doors the servants had been using all evening. He held it open for her, ushering her through with a light touch to the small of her back.

On the other side of the door they met a wide-eyed serving girl carrying a flagon full to the brim of ale. “Your Grace,” she squeaked.

“Go about your business, girl,” Stannis said sternly.

She gave a clumsy curtsey, fixed her eyes on the floor and headed for the Small Hall, spilling a few drops of ale in her hurry.

“Come,” Stannis said, tugging Sansa gently along. He seemed to know where he was going, even though they were in a part of the Tower of the Hand that Sansa had never been to, despite having lived here. _Arya would know this place._

They walked without saying a word until they found themselves alone in a more familiar corridor.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” Sansa said, glancing up at Stannis. He made a noise that was somewhere between a hum and a grunt. “And it was lovely to meet your friends from the stormlands.”

“Fickle friends,” Stannis muttered. “I’d wager most of them would rather I had died and Renly lived.”

Sansa was momentarily shocked. _How can he say that?_ Could he really believe it? A sharp pang of sadness shot through her as her shock faded. “It must have hurt,” she said. “Losing him and Robert.”

Stannis looked at her briefly, but did not stop walking. His arm tensed. “It’s done.”

They walked in silence for a time.

“I would not rather Renly had lived,” she offered tentatively, feeling the truth of her words as she spoke them. Having stayed in King’s Landing for several months now, Sansa found that she agreed with her father; despite his jagged edges, Stannis was a good, just king. Much better than King Robert had been. Of course, she did not know what sort of king Renly might have been, though she had once thought he would be a splendid one. _Splendid looking, perhaps._ Somehow she could not envision Renly sitting on the Iron Throne day after day, listening to petitioners, and enduring endless council meetings. She could not imagine Renly working on tax reforms, or thinking of sewer maintenance, or drafting new laws to keep the smallfolk safe. But she could well imagine him being the life and soul of every feast and tourney he attended, and charming his foes until they were his allies as Robert had. “I wish he had not died, of course,” she continued, “he was so young. But I’m glad you’re still here.”

“And are you ‘glad’ we are to marry?” Stannis asked, his voice rough. He did not turn his head to look at her, but stared straight ahead as they continued on their way.

Sansa considered the question as she had considered her uncle’s question about whether she wanted to hasten the wedding earlier that evening. “I don’t know,” she said. She did not think she would truly know the answer to either question until she knew Stannis better.

He turned his head to look at her now, his brow deeply furrowed. There was also something wounded in his gaze that made her heart clench up. 

“But I am not unhappy,” she added quickly. “Not because I am eager to be queen,” she said, recalling his fear that her first concern upon his death would be for her position, “but because I think you could make me a good husband if you cared to.”

At that, Stannis came to a halt. She released his arm and they faced one another.

“‘If I cared to’?” Stannis repeated, glaring at her. “What are you implying?”

“I don’t mean to imply that you’re careless with me,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You swore you would not hurt me or mine, and I know you would not.” Stannis looked marginally pacified at those words. “What I mean is that… I…” She blushed. It was harder than she had imagined to put her thoughts into words. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I liked the way you kissed me.”

Silence.

Unable to bear the tension, Sansa opened her eyes back up. 

Stannis was staring intently at her, brow still furrowed, and his lips parted as if he were about to say something. No words were coming out, however, and his face had gone faintly red. “Kisses,” he said flatly.

Sansa met his eyes as bravely as she could. She clasped her hands more tightly, trying to keep them from shaking.

Stannis ran a palm over his face and stared at her some more. “Is that all you -” he cut himself off with an exasperated sigh and pressed his lips together, his eyes searching her face. With a jolt, Sansa recognised a glimpse of vulnerability in his gaze. “You liked it?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, aiming for calm dignity. The tremor in her voice spoiled the effect somewhat. “And I believe I’ve also told you that I should like to do it again.” She bit her lip. “But perhaps only when we’re alone; I’d rather not hear too many bawdy songs about us.”

Stannis snorted, but for once the sound was more amused than sardonic. He was still staring at her.

Her heart hammering, she quickly licked her lips and looked pointedly around at the empty corridor. “You might kiss me right now if you liked.” 

The dull red colour of his skin darkened to a noticeable flush. She was sure her face matched his.

Stannis looked around as she had, his eyes searching for intruders.

Sansa started to say something - she didn’t quite know what - but before she could draw breath, Stannis had planted his hands on her waist and neck, his mouth crashing into hers with a force that knocked the wind out of her. She tensed with the shock of it, but as his lips moved greedily over hers, she breathed through her nose, closed her eyes, and relaxed into his touch.

His skin was hot. Hotter than last time. And his fingers were digging into the soft flesh at her waist in a way that was ticklish-but-not. The hand on her neck was firm, his thumb on her jaw, guiding her face so their noses did not get in the way. He was more insistent than he had been last time, not content with merely pressing his lips to hers. He licked her bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth, flooding her body with heat. The sensation was so wet and new and _strange_ that she could feel her own pulse, hot in her veins. Hot _everywhere._

She wound her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his. _More._

He pushed forward until her back was to the wall, his body flush against hers. The heat of him was almost too much to bear, but somehow she knew it was exactly what she needed. His thumb pressed down on her jaw, and she answered by tilting her face, almost fainting with shock when he immediately slid his tongue into her mouth, running it against hers.

_Gods… gods...._

She was his captive now, trapped between the stone wall and the hard planes of his body. It was oppressive and comforting both at once, like one of Robb’s tight hugs but so much, much more. With her eyes closed she could not see him, but all her other senses seemed to be more alert for it, nearly overwhelming her. His touch; the feel of his body pressed to hers, was most overwhelming of all, but there was also the familiar leather and metal smell of him, the sound of their mingled, laboured breathing, and then the _taste._ Part of it was just lemon water and traces of dinner, but breathing his air brought another taste with it, something that hit the back of her throat and made something deep in her belly clench up. 

There was a low moan. _Was that me?_

Stannis shuddered and pulled away. For a moment they simply stood still and breathed. She was glad of the wall; her legs were not doing much to keep her upright.

“Was that what you wanted?” Stannis asked at length, his voice raw. He was strung tight as a bowstring, watching her like a hawk. The vulnerability was still there in his eyes, but only just. She knew that if she said no, it would be the last she’d ever see of it. 

She brought a hand up to her face, touching her lips lightly. They were wet, and the skin around them too. “I think... yes.” He kept his eyes on her, searching intently. “Is it very unladylike of me?” she asked, suddenly worried.

He blinked a few times and shifted his stance. “We are betrothed,” he said, his tone a touch defensive.

She smiled, a weight lifting from her chest. “We are,” she said, nodding. “And our wedding is not so very far off.” Again her mind was flooded with images of what her wedding night might be like, this time accompanied by a deep, hot ache. “It’s wise to get to know one another like this, is it not?” Her voice sounded strange and breathless to her ears.

He inhaled sharply and pressed up against her again, a hot, heavy palm travelled down to her hip as he leaned in for another kiss.

A gentle cough that drifted over to them from a short distance stopped him in his tracks, however.

Ser Barristan had appeared from out of nowhere. He had his back politely turned, but his cough had been unmistakable.

Trapped as she was, all Sansa could do was squirm, mortified that Ser Barristan had seen them like this. _What must he think of us?_ Stannis groaned - a low, pained sound - and she immediately stopped moving.

Slowly - his jaw clenched so tightly shut that Sansa half expected to hear the sound of his teeth shattering at any moment - Stannis placed his hands on the wall on either side of her and pushed himself away. Without looking at her, he stiffly offered his arm. “We should go.”

They said nothing as they walked the rest of the way to her door. Ser Barristan followed them at a distance. Once they reached the Maidenvault, Sansa turned to face Stannis, searching his eyes to determine his mood. He carried himself stiffly, and his expression seemed a little out of sorts, but he did not look angry.

“Good night,” she whispered, looking at his mouth. It seemed unreal that he had just been kissing her, but the evidence was right there. His lips were redder than usual, and a little swollen. Her heart skipped a beat. _It really happened._

Stannis glanced at Ser Barristan. The knight was facing away from them, clearly pretending that a nearby tapestry was deeply interesting. Quickly, Stannis bent his neck to touch his lips to hers, but even though she parted her lips to encourage him, he stepped back almost before the kiss began. His eyes blazed as he widened the gap between them. “Good night, Sansa.” He glanced at her door for a fraction of a heartbeat, swallowing. Meeting her eyes again he nodded, before turning to stride away, his long legs carrying him swiftly from her sight.

Ser Barristan sent her a small, apologetic smile before following in Stannis’s wake.

Sansa slept fitfully again: a restless, fidgety energy keeping her heart pounding.

***

Sansa carried the secret of her new kisses with her for two days, not speaking of them to anyone. Partly because she was not ready to share such a precious moment, and partly because she did not want to steal the attention from Jeyne and her wedding.

Shireen and her ladies were all so eager to speak of the feast and their dance partners that it did not matter that Sansa did more listening than speaking. And when Jeyne eventually appeared to join them for tea, they all wanted to hear what she had to say about being a married lady, so it did not seem odd that Sansa continued in silence. 

But Jeyne was not her best friend for nothing. As soon as they were alone together, Jeyne gave Sansa a shrewd, searching look. “Something has happened.”

They were walking arm in arm in the godswood, keeping to the paths that had been shoveled free of snow. A cold breeze stirred the naked branches of the trees, and encouraged the two ladies to keep to a brisk pace.

Sansa kept her eyes on the path ahead. “Yes, of course. You were married.”

“I know that,” Jeyne said, and Sansa could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “And it’s lovely. But there’s something you’re not telling me, and I mean to find out what it is!”

“It’s nothing,” Sansa protested, reluctant to speak of Stannis with Ser Gerald trailing after them. “Tell me about Devan. Was he kind to you?”

Jeyne had already spoken of it when they’d had tea with Shireen and her ladies, but Sansa suspected she might say more now that they were alone.

“A lady shouldn’t tell,” Jeyne said coyly, though her smile widened. “Oh, but he is the sweetest husband I could have hoped for.” Pausing, Jeyne looked over her shoulder at Ser Gerald. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I was warned there would be pain the first time, but it was hardly anything. Truly, I did not imagine anything could feel so sweet.”

Her face burning, Sansa tightened her grip on Jeyne’s arm. “Really?”

Jeyne nodded eagerly, stifling a giggle. “We stayed abed nearly all of yesterday.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open.

“Now that I have shocked you well and proper,” Jeyne said smugly, “will you tell me what it is that you’re keeping from me?”

Biting her lip, Sansa glanced at Ser Gerald. He did not appear to be watching them very closely. Instead he was examining the surroundings, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes squinting into the harsh glare of the bright snow. _Searching for enemies?_ She looked back at Jeyne’s expectant face. “Stannis kissed me again. After the wedding feast.”

“I knew it!” Jeyne exclaimed, grinning widely. In a lower voice she asked, “was it a proper kiss?”

A pleasant tingle ran down Sansa’s spine as the memory of the kiss filled her mind. “Yes,” she whispered. “But Ser Barristan caught us, so we had to stop.”

Jeyne snorted. “Better Ser Barristan than your uncle.”

Paling at the idea, Sansa nodded weakly. “I suppose.”

“When are you seeing him again? His Grace, I mean.”

“We have a cyvasse lesson planned for tomorrow.” Sansa’s stomach still swooped every time she thought of it. Stannis had sent her a note with the invitation early yesterday morning, and she had tucked it into one of her books so that she might read it again and again, while pretending to study.

“You should try to get him to kiss you some more, then,” Jeyne said, her voice eager. “It gets better the more you do it.”

Sansa’s heart sped up. “It gets better?”

Jeyne nodded wisely, but then her expression became sympathetic. “Of course, you won’t know how much better until after the wedding, but there are things you can do with all of your clothes still on that are really -”

“What are you two whispering about?” Ser Gerald said, much nearer to them now than he had been a moment ago.

“That’s none of your concern, ser,” Sansa said, glaring over her shoulder at him, her cheeks stinging with heat. Jeyne’s words had summoned up the memory of Robb and Margaery in that corridor. _They had all their clothes on._ But Robb’s hand had been… somewhere it ought not have been.

“That could be so, my lady,” he said, seemingly amused by her glare. “Or it could be that you two are plotting against His Grace. In which case it certainly _would_ be my concern.”

“We’re not,” Jeyne said indignantly. She turned to Sansa and lowered her voice by a fraction. “He is so rude.”

“Rude am I?” Ser Gerald grinned. “Some might say you’re the rude ones, whispering like you do.”

“Please follow us from a greater distance, ser,” Sansa said, doing her best to sound like her mother.

He placed a hand over his heart as if fatally wounded. “Come now! Is that something a fair-hearted, fresh-picked plum would say?”

Jeyne burst into giggles.

Sansa pressed her lips together and glared at them both.

***

Sansa dressed with nearly as much care for her cyvasse lesson with Stannis as she had for Jeyne’s wedding feast. Though she wore no tiara, she put her maids to work curling and arranging her hair in the most pleasing way possible, and insisted they lace her more tightly than necessary into her lavender silks. She had worn them for their first kiss, and was sure they would bring her luck.

She arrived a little early outside Stannis’s solar, a blush rising to her cheeks as she found Ser Barristan standing guard. She had not seen him since he’d caught her and Stannis kissing.

“My lady,” he said, nodding silently at Ser Gerald as well. His tone was kind, and there was no judgment in his eyes. 

Sansa breathed easier.

“I expect His Grace wants me to leave and come back later?” Ser Gerald said with a put-upon sigh.

“I believe so.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ser Gerald turned on the spot and trudged off.

Ser Barristan watched him go with a flicker of bemusement in his eyes, shaking his head. Looking at her, his bemusement became something much fonder. “He’s expecting you,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll leave it a little open,” he told her. “Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you, ser,” she said, her blush deepening at his reminder about the door. With a deep breath, she walked into the solar, keeping her shoulders back and her chin up.

“Sansa.” Stannis got to his feet. He had been sitting at a small table near the hearth, his black and gold cyvasse board already set up and ready, an empty chair across from him. He was dressed in his usual leathers and roughspun wool. His eyes raked over her once before fixing upon her face. He cleared his throat and gestured, hitting his hand on the back of the chair he had just stood up from. Retracting the offending hand quickly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have a seat.”

He helped her with her chair and she murmured a thank you, catching his eye. He only met her gaze for a moment before hurriedly taking his own seat. He’d given her the gold pieces, taking the onyx ones for himself.

“Arrange the board as you will,” he said, staring resolutely downwards. “If you have any trouble, you may ask for advice.”

Sansa bit her lip, staring at the board. How could she have forgotten so much already? She’d had so much on her mind, and… _what does this piece even do?_ She picked up the offending piece, staring at it. _Oh. Rabble._ Slowly, the rules of the game returned to her. The screen in the middle of the board kept Stannis from seeing what she was doing, so she hoped he did not know how much time she wasted just trying to remember everything. _I should have asked Shireen to practise with me yesterday._ Eventually she managed to arrange her pieces, settling on a strategy that she hoped would serve her well. “There,” she said, glancing at Stannis. He looked from her face and down at his own side of the board suspiciously quickly.

“Would you like me to take a look and give you my thoughts?” he offered, still staring down at the board. 

She nodded, relieved that he seemed to understand that she was still unsure. Still learning.

“We shall not remove the screen yet. If you would like to change your arrangement after hearing my advice, you may.”

He rose from his chair and positioned himself right behind her. He did not touch her, but she could not have been more aware of his presence if she had tried. The warmth radiating from him seemed much more _immediate_ than the heat from the hearth, and she caught herself holding her breath.

“It is not an ill-conceived arrangement,” Stannis said after considering her side of the board for a moment. “Though I would encourage you to pay more attention to the placement of your mountains.” He explained it in more detail, and she tried to pay attention, she really did, but he was leaning over her, pointing certain pieces out, and then he was touching her shoulder as if to steady himself, his voice almost right in her ear.

“I - I see,” she said. She did not see.

He straightened his back, and the space he had been occupying was suddenly cold and bereft.

Sitting back down, he eyed his own pieces. “Come have a look at my side before you decide whether to change anything.”

Her heart beating hard, she rose to her feet as gracefully as she could and walked to stand behind him. At first she remained still, not touching him, while he explained his strategy.

“But won’t it be unfair if I change my side now?” she asked, daring to lean over him as he had done, the fingers of one hand landing lightly as feathers on his shoulder, her other hand pointing out his elephants. “I’ll know to expect these.” 

He turned in his chair to face her. “Unfair?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes. I’d have an advantage, wouldn’t I?”

“True,” he said, his eyes flickering to her lips before meeting hers. “But an advantage in this case evens the odds, which makes it fair.”

She huffed out a mock offended breath. “Like giving a slow runner a head start in a race?”

A ghost of a smile passed over his face and Sansa wished she could grab it and make it stay. _There are traces of Renly there, when his eyes smile._

“Just so,” he agreed.

Sansa glanced at the door. It was _technically_ open, but only by the barest margin. One would have to peer through the crack in order to see what was going on inside the solar, and she doubted Ser Barristan would do that.

Flushed with her own boldness, she quickly pressed a kiss to Stannis’s lips, pulling back with a small smile. “But then how will I ever learn to run faster?”

He blinked at her, his nostrils flaring. “How indeed?”

Suddenly shy, she started to return to her seat. But Stannis’s hand shot out to encircle her wrist, keeping her in place.

“What is it?” She was faintly surprised when the drumming of her heart did not drown out her voice.

He shook his head, staring at her. “You are not… entirely what I expected,” he said, examining her closely.

She tilted her head to the side. “What did you expect?”

He was quiet for several beats. “A silk glove for an iron gauntlet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t that how you put it?”

“I - yes.” She blinked at him, confused.

“I... expected the silk to chafe and tear at being wrapped around coarse iron,” he went on, searching her eyes as he spoke. “Lose its shine… its softness.”

“Oh.” For a moment she just looked at him, thinking. Was that the root of his suspicion, his jealousy… his fear that all she cared about was her position, his disbelief at being asked for kisses and being told she enjoyed them? _Does he think himself so repellant that I could not possibly care for him?_ She put her thoughts aside and sent him a small smile. “Didn’t you know?” She raised a brow. “Silk is the strongest fabric there is.”

He huffed out a breath, surprised or amused, she was not sure. “So it would seem.”

She looked down at his hand, still gripping her wrist. “You are not what I expected either, you know.”

“No?” His eyes followed hers, and he released her hand quickly. He was still sitting while she stood, but Sansa did not find it awkward. In many ways it was easier to talk to him without his height looming between them.

“I did not expect you to be able to dance so well,” she said lightly, wishing to remove some of the tension from his face. Her heart lifted when he huffed out another breath. “And when I was younger I did not understand that all the work you do is not just for the sake of working. I used to think you enjoyed wielding power. Having everyone obey you.”

Stannis frowned. “That’s not -”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I know now that you work as hard as you do in order to improve the realm. To - to make the laws just, and the city safe. For everyone. Not just the highborn, but the smallfolk too.”

“I assure you, what I do is nothing so heroic.” He was not meeting her eyes.

“I think it is admirable.”

He looked up, hawk’s eyes searching for deceit. When he found none, he looked away. “Admirable or not, none of it will matter if your father does not keep the enemy at bay.”

Her stomach filled with ice, and she was forcefully reminded of what her father had said before he’d left King’s Landing. _’If the Wall should fall, none of this will mean anything.’_ She swallowed. “The Wall has stood for eight thousand years.”

“Yes. And if your father is successful, and the enemy in the north is defeated, I’m sure an everlasting peace will follow. No Targaryen waits to invade the land with dragonfire to enslave Westeros once again, no petty Reach lord will try to murder me or mine, and no Greyjoy will attempt yet another rebellion.”

The ice in her stomach now streaming through her veins, Sansa shook her head. “Then why try?” She touched his cheek briefly, wanting him to look at her. “Why do everything you do if you’re so sure it will all burn up?”

He clenched his jaw and met her eyes with a tired, resolute look. “Because it is a king’s duty to serve the realm.” 

Sansa did not know what she had expected him to say, but as soon as he had given his answer, she felt foolish. _Of course this is what he thinks._ She should have known. “Is that all you think about? Duty?”

A flush crept up his neck to his cheeks. “We do not choose our destinies,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

 _You chose mine,_ she thought. _And I chose to accept it._ She took a steadying breath. “Shall we continue the lesson?”

His brow furrowed, but smoothed out when he registered the cyvasse board in front of him. “If you wish,” he said, though there was reluctance in his voice.

She nodded and started to walk back to her chair. Stannis shifted in clear agitation however, so she stopped and gave him a polite, inquiring look. He stared at her, swallowing, his eyes going to the door and back to her several times. 

“May I kiss you?” The words were spoken quickly, and now he was clenching his jaw as if to brace himself.

Disbelief flooded her body, paralysing her momentarily. He had not asked for a kiss before. _Did I mishear?_ His expression seemed to imply that she hadn’t; he was still bracing himself, as if certain she would deny him. Her face glowing hot, she quickly nodded. “You may.”

And because it seemed the simplest course of action, she perched herself on his thigh, bringing her face close to his expectantly.

Stannis inhaled sharply, his eyes widening for a beat. But then his gaze darkened, and an arm snaked its way around her waist, as she in turn placed an arm around his shoulders. He swallowed and looked at her lips, his free hand rising slowly to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. There was a brief and eternal pause where neither one of them breathed. And then - _finally_ \- he kissed her. A shallow taste at first, but deeper with every frantic beat of her heart. His hand was burrowing through her pile of curls; starting behind her ear, and then searching for the nape of her neck as he kissed her with growing force. The skin above her lip was already beginning to chafe, but she kept her lips parted, letting him lick between them. After a little while she even dared to lick into his mouth in return. It was slippery and wet and warm and _very_ odd, but she liked the sensation just as much as she had after Jeyne’s wedding feast.

There seemed to be no end to the kiss. They breathed through their noses and did not stop - could not - stop. Sansa didn’t think she could push herself away if she tried; her insides had melted, and her limbs had gone strangely heavy. A restless, hot pulse was pounding in her veins, and she wanted… she wanted… _something._ Squirming did not help, but she couldn’t control the urge.

Tearing his lips away, breathing heavily, Stannis firmly, but not ungently, pushed her off his thigh. His eyes were closed, and she had never seen him so flushed. She staggered, surprised to find herself on her feet so suddenly. Her knees had turned to water, but somehow she managed to stay upright.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, her own breathing nearly as laboured as his.

“We should get back to the lesson,” Stannis said through gritted teeth, eyes still firmly shut. He was either in a great deal of pain, or else concentrating fiercely.

Now it was her turn to sound reluctant. “Must we?”

He opened his eyes. His pupils had all but swallowed the blue of his irises. “We must.”

Her mouth went dry and she nodded weakly, returning to her seat.

Neither one of them did very well at the game.


	18. Treasures

So much changed after Jeyne’s wedding.

Sansa had grown used to going several days - even weeks - without sharing any meaningful conversations with Stannis, but now he was inviting her to play cyvasse once or twice a week, and he always seemed to need to speak to whichever member of the small council she had a lesson with right around the time when her lessons finished. The first few times it happened Sansa didn’t realise he was doing it on purpose, but it soon became blatantly apparent.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, coming to a quick halt.

Stannis was standing right outside the door at the bottom of the stairs that led up to Maester Gormon’s chambers, arms crossed, his expression impatient. But as soon as he saw her, he dropped his arms and took a step closer, his furrowed brow smoothing out.

“Again?” Ser Gerald muttered, having nearly crashed into her back. He sounded amused. 

Ser Allard, standing close by Stannis, gave Ser Gerald a disapproving look.

“My lady,” Stannis said.

Sansa smiled. “Are you here to speak to Maester Gormon?”

Ser Gerald snorted.

“No,” Stannis said, shaking his head and shooting Ser Gerald an irritated glance.

“Oh.” _What then?_

“I… wanted to ask you a question.”

Curiosity flared inside her, but she made herself keep calm and smile politely. “Please do.”

Clearing his throat, Stannis nodded, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and frowned. But he was not frowning at her. He was looking at Ser Gerald, his eyes narrowing and a vein on the side of his neck beginning to throb dangerously. Sansa glanced at the knight, and saw that he had pressed his lips together tightly, his body practically vibrating with suppressed mirth. She glared at him too, but that only made his shoulders shake harder.

“Ser Allard,” Stannis snapped. “Take Ser Gerald back upstairs to see Maester Gormon. He’s clearly ill.”

Ser Gerald straightened his back and gave Stannis an affronted look. “I am not -”

“My king,” Ser Allard said, cutting Ser Gerald off without so much as an apologetic glance, “that will leave you unguarded.”

“Lady Sansa and I will be fine while you’re gone.”

“More than fine, I’m sure,” Ser Gerald muttered under his breath, looking amused again.

Ser Allard looked between Stannis and Ser Gerald a few times, his brow furrowed. Then, sighing, he grabbed Ser Gerald’s arm and began marching him through the door and up the tower steps. Ser Gerald wrenched himself free almost at once, but kept pace with Ser Allard nonetheless.

“He is a menace,” Stannis muttered, frowning at Ser Gerald’s retreating back.

Sansa listened to the knights’ fading footsteps, watching the vein on the side of Stannis’s neck until it was no longer throbbing. “Why did you choose him to be the head of my guard?” she asked. “He seems... undisciplined compared to the other knights of the Kingsguard.”

“He’s highly competent,” Stannis said, giving her a measured look. “Great skill with a sword. Observant.” His lips curled sardonically. “Thinks for himself.”

“He certainly expresses his thoughts very freely,” Sansa said, shooting Stannis a small smile.

Stannis grunted in agreement. “He reminds me of Renly at times.”

“Really?”

He nodded, but did not elaborate.

For a long moment they just looked at one another, and Sansa’s heart began to beat a little faster as she recalled the last time they were alone together. Her eyes swept over his tall figure, noting the details of his plain garb, but somehow her gaze kept being drawn to his lips. There was nothing about the severe look of them that suggested they were capable of melting her insides, and yet she knew it to be true.

(“If your insides are melting, then means you’re doing it right,” Jeyne had said the other day, a wicked gleam in her eyes.)

The faint sound of footsteps coming back down the stairs carried to them. Sansa wondered fleetingly whether Maester Gormon had been required to examine Ser Gerald, or whether the old man had simply sent the two knights straight back down. They had not been up there for very long.

Stannis took a step closer to her, a decisive expression settling on his features. “Would you like to have dinner with me? Tonight.” 

Sansa blinked, averting her eyes from his mouth. _Dinner? Alone?_ Her pulse was suddenly thrumming in her cheeks.

“Well?” There was something agitated in his eyes, though he stood still and did not fidget. The footsteps were getting louder.

“Oh! Yes. I mean, yes, I’d love to.”

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing by a margin. “Good.”

And just like that, their weekly breakfasts transformed into weekly dinners.

***

They didn’t always kiss when they played cyvasse, and they didn’t always kiss after their dinners. (Especially not if Shireen joined them, which she sometimes did.) But kissing was nonetheless becoming familiar to Sansa. Familiar, lovely, warm, welcome, but in no way _enough._

“I’m afraid I’ll go mad. I enjoy our kisses so very much, but we are always obliged to stop, and yesterday I truly thought I’d die when he said I had to return to my apartments.” It was true. Stannis had not let her kiss him sitting down since their first private cyvasse game, but yesterday - after a particularly pleasant dinner where they had discussed the maesters they had grown up with - she had been on the verge of _making_ him sit down. She had the vague notion that if she could just perch herself on his thigh again - perhaps with his thigh in between hers this time - the maddening ache that constantly plagued her would be appeased. 

“I’m sure he feels the same way,” Jeyne said consolingly. “And it’s good that it feels so maddening,” she said, smiling slyly. “It is your body’s way of _preparing._ ” A significant look accompanied these words. “Trust me.”

Sansa blushed, understanding Jeyne’s meaning. The two ladies were sitting in Sansa’s solar, forgotten cups of tea cooling on the table beside them. Outside it was gloomy and overcast, but inside it was bright and warm.

“I want to trust you,” Sansa said, her frustration edging into her voice, “but… I can’t bear this. Not for seven more months.”

Jeyne bit her lip. “Is there really nowhere you can go to be alone?”

Sansa had complained about her lack of privacy with Stannis at length. Many times. The most privacy they got was when Ser Barristan was guarding Stannis; he let them keep doors nearly closed, and rarely bothered them.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, sighing. She wasn’t sure true privacy would help matters. Stannis seemed set on stopping himself - and her - whenever their kisses grew properly heated. “Why do you ask?”

Jeyne chewed on her lip some more, her eyes darting from the window to the door. “Because there are things…” she paused, blushing. “I will whisper it to you,” she said, leaning in close.

Sansa’s eyes grew very wide as Jeyne whispered in her ear.

***

It took Sansa several days to work up the courage to start looking for opportunities to put some of Jeyne’s advice to good use. But such opportunities - even though Stannis was making himself much more available to her than he had in the past - were few and far between. She had her lessons, her meetings with the royal steward and her own household’s steward, her sewing circle, her visits to the sept and the godswood occupying much of her time. And recently she and Alynna had conspired to help Shireen overcome some of her shyness by taking the princess into the city to visit the markets. They would purchase books, fabric, or even jewellery, encouraging Shireen to speak to the tradesmen. Sansa had done most of the talking on their first excursion, but Shireen had been unable to keep silent when they’d visited the bookseller. Last time they had gone, Shireen had done nearly as much talking as Sansa had.

“These look delicious,” Sansa said, smiling at the young man on the other side of the baker’s cart. He appeared to be Devan’s age, and had a wispy moustache. His face had been growing steadily redder since she and Shireen had approached the cart. “Don’t you think so, Your Grace?”

Shireen looked at the pies, and nodded. “They seem well made.”

“Shall we get one for each of us?” Sansa glanced towards Shireen’s ladies. Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa were looking at the wares a nearby vendor was peddling. “And one more, for His Grace?”

Shireen looked at Sansa. “For Father?”

Sansa nodded. “I’m sure he’d enjoy such a fine pie.” In truth she was not at all sure, but she made a point of mentioning the king whenever she could when they were in the city. The blushing youth looked ready to faint, but Sansa smiled reassuringly at him. “How much for six?”

The boy stuttered out the price, and Shireen paid him.

They purchased several more things, stopping every time they saw anything they liked. It was a fine, but very cold day, and Sansa wished she could simply buy everything from every vendor, and send the people home where they could be warm. More fervently, she wished she could send the miserable souls that huddled here and there, begging for coin as they passed, to a place where they could be safe and fed.

“They really like you,” Shireen said later, when they had returned to the Red Keep. They’d had tea with Shireen’s ladies to warm up after their excursion, but Sansa had lingered on after they left, sensing that Shireen wanted a private word. “The smallfolk.”

Sansa ducked her head, wishing she still had her cup of tea to occupy her hands. “They like you, too.”

“They like my coin,” Shireen said, her tone very like her father’s for a moment. “They’d like you even if you weren’t giving alms to ever beggar we pass.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said doubtfully, shaking her head. “But it worries me that there are so many beggars.”

“Father has seen to it that they have places to sleep,” Shireen said. “But he is concerned, too. He spoke of it last time we played cyvasse.”

“Everything is harder in winter,” Sansa said quietly, half to Shireen and half to herself. There was less food, and less work, and the weather made it impossible for much to be done to amend things.

Sansa prayed for a short winter every time she visited the sept or stood before the heart tree.

Jeyne helped Sansa keep her spirits up, however. Today they were walking arm in arm towards the royal kennels, passing busy servants as they went about their duties. They were going to the kennels because Jeyne had decided to give Devan a hunting hound as a gift to celebrate his recently earned spurs. _Ser Devan Seaworth. How well it sounds._ Sansa never usually went to the kennels as the hounds reminded her of Lady, but she wanted to help Jeyne choose the perfect one for Devan.

“Has my advice been of any use to you yet?” Jeyne asked, keeping her voice low. 

Sansa sighed. “ _He_ was guarding us during our cyvasse game yesterday,” she said, glaring over her shoulder at Ser Gerald. “No peace at all.”

Ser Gerald gave her a cheerful wave, and then continued to look around, his eyes alert. 

“The puppies will take your mind off things,” Jeyne said, squeezing Sansa’s arm.

The kennelmaster was only too happy to show them a new litter, pointing it out to them with pride in his voice. “Good strong pups,” he said. “Any one of them would make your husband a fine gift, m’lady.”

“May we touch them?” Jeyne asked, her voice high and excited.

“Aye, just be gentle. And mind the bitch; she’s protective of the wee things.”

Jeyne did not have to be told twice. She practically dove towards the nearest one, picking it up with an ecstatic expression on her face. “Oh, he’s so soft!” Jeyne cooed at the puppy, stroking its fur and laughing when the tiny creature licked her fingers. “Here,” Jeyne said, handing it to Sansa with a smile. She immediately picked another one up, chattering away with the kennelmaster about which one might have the keenest hunting instinct.

The soft, squirming pup licked Sansa’s palm and made sweet little puppy noises. Her heart melted at once, and she had to blink rapidly as memories of Lady came flooding back.

“Oh, but look at that one!” Jeyne said, returning the puppy she had been holding to the others - all squirming and chasing after a good spot at their mother’s teats - and walking over to the corner of the stall. A tiny lump in the straw had drawn her attention. “He’s so little,” Jeyne said in a concerned tone, gently prodding the lump. “Is he the runt?” She directed the question at the kennelmaster, but he had turned to say something to one of the boys who worked for him, and did not appear to hear.

Sansa walked over to see. Jeyne had picked the tiny thing up, and was examining it.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” Jeyne said after a moment, her face falling.

 _Oh._ Sansa’s throat closed up.

The kennelmaster finished with the boy and came over to them. “Ah,” he said, frowning. “That can sometimes happen.” He shook his head. “Give him here.”

The burning sensation behind her eyes was not going away no matter how much Sansa blinked. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe steadily through her nose.

“How sad,” Jeyne said, watching the kennelmaster take the runt away. “Are you well?” she asked in a quieter tone of voice, touching Sansa’s shoulder.

“I need some air,” Sansa choked out. 

Almost blindly, she walked as quickly as she could without running for the nearest way out of the kennels. She did not think it was the way she and Jeyne had entered, as Ser Gerald was not there to stop her, but in truth she barely noticed. She just needed to get away. Far, far, _far_ away.

But she had not managed to put very much distance between herself and the kennels when someone grabbed her upper arm, forcing her to come to a stop. Sure that it was Ser Gerald, she whipped her head around, a command for him to please release her on the tip of her tongue. _I just want to be alone for a moment. Just one moment._

But it was not Ser Gerald who had stopped her.

 _Stannis._ Her heart jolted.

“What has happened?” Stannis was frowning at her, searching her eyes and then looking around. “Where is your guard?”

She blinked quickly, doing her best to keep the tears that had sprung up at the sight of the poor, dead runt at bay. “It’s nothing,” she said, swallowing around the lump in her throat. She knew how he felt about her crying. “Ser Gerald is still inside. With Jeyne. I just - I just needed some air.”

“It is plainly not nothing,” Stannis said, his frown deepening. He looked around, catching Ser Barristan’s eye and giving him some silent signal. “I was going to my solar. Come.” He offered his arm and she could do nothing but accept it. Ser Barristan did not follow them. She wondered whether he’d gone to tell Ser Gerald she was safe, but soon put it from her mind.

Sansa was glad that it took several minutes of walking for them to reach Stannis’s solar, and used the time to collect herself the best she could. But every time she thought she had her emotions under control, the fresh memory of the dead puppy invaded her mind and brought with it a flood of grief. Lady had been so well-behaved and sweet. Sansa had taken care of her always, feeding her and petting her, teaching her to be a proper lady…

_She did nothing wrong. She was good. She was **good.**_

As soon as they were alone in the king’s solar, the door firmly shut, Stannis led her to a bench strewn with furs and pillows and sat them down. “Tell me,” he said, his voice strict and commanding, but not wholly unkind. “Has someone insulted you? Harmed you?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. You mustn’t worry. I’m being silly.” She was trying not to cry. She really was. _I wish Mother were here._ She didn’t want to cry in front of him again. Everything had been going so well between them.

“Tell me.” He still sounded commanding, but much less strict. His hand covered one of hers, the warm, steady contact unexpected and startling. 

She stared down at their joined hands, then up at his pinched, concerned expression. _Does he really want to know?_ There was only one way to find out.

“Jeyne and I were looking at the puppies,” she began in a small voice. “But one of them was dead.” Stannis’s brows rose, but he said nothing and continued to give her his undivided attention. “It - it reminded me of Lady.” She had to stop speaking. Her body was no longer under her control, and a dry sob escaped despite her desperate attempt to stifle it.

For a while Stannis said nothing, though he kept hold of her hand. His thumb moved back and forth over a small patch of skin on her palm; a tiny movement that she wondered whether he was even aware of. “Lady was your direwolf, correct?” he asked at length.

“Yes.” Her voice shook, and breathing was becoming too difficult.

“And you lost her?”

Sansa clapped her free hand over her mouth and nodded, tears escaping even though she had her eyes tightly closed.

Again Stannis remained silent for a stretch of time, allowing her to take several deep breaths and do her best to compose herself. “What happened?”

Tears in her eyes, she told him everything. About Lady and Nymeria. About Arya and Joffrey and the poor little boy Sandor Clegane killed. _Mycah._ About the way she had been asked to stand before the king and queen and her betrothed and tell them what had happened, and how she _couldn’t._

“I said I didn’t know. That I didn’t remember,” she said, her body shaking. “It was a lie, but how could I have told the truth? How could I speak against Joffrey? He was to be my husband.” Several tears escaped, wetting her cheeks.

Stannis gave her a handkerchief.

She wiped her eyes and took a loud, shuddering breath. “Queen Cersei made them kill Lady,” she said at length, closing her eyes and stifling a sob. “Even though she never bit anyone. Even though she was _good._ ”

Without a word, Stannis let go of her hand. Her stomach sank for a moment, but then Stannis put his arm around her shoulders, bringing her close to his chest. Overwhelmed, Sansa could do nothing but cling to him, shaking. “I’m sorry. I know I said I would try not to cry in front of you -”

“It was an injustice,” he said, cutting her off, his arm an iron band around her. “Your tears do not offend me.”

Something tense unclenched in her stomach, and she released a long breath, sinking deeper into his embrace. “Sometimes I think the gods were punishing me,” she whispered. “For lying.”

He did not speak right away, but when he did, there was no hardness in his tone. “The truth would have been preferable. But you should not have been asked to bear witness in the first place.”

“I wish no one had asked me.” Gods, she loved her father, but how she wished he had not asked it of her...

Stannis held her in silence until her breathing had become deep and even; until her thoughts had slowed and her heart was less raw. She expected him to release her at any moment, but he began to speak instead.

“I had a bird in my youth.” Stannis said it so quietly that she almost didn’t hear. She held her breath, waiting for more. “A goshawk. Injured when I found her.”

“What was her name?”

“Proudwing.” He fell silent, but Sansa waited, realising faintly that she was still clutching his handkerchief. “She would eat food right out of my hand,” he added after a while.

She smiled sadly. “Lady would, too.”

“She never learned to fly properly,” Stannis went on. “I could not take her hawking. My brother said she was weak. My great-uncle that I was making a fool of myself.” There was a bitter edge in his voice that sliced through her already wounded heart. “Because of them, I abandoned her.”

“But you weren’t making a fool of yourself,” she said, pulling away from his embrace so that she could look into his eyes. “You saved her. It was a kindness.”

He exhaled sharply, staring over her shoulder. “I’ve found that kindness is rarely rewarded.” His eyes returned to her face; bitter or sad, Sansa could not tell. _Both, perhaps?_ “And was I kind in the end? You heard me. I abandoned her. I could have chosen to ignore Robert and Ser Harbert. But I chose to abandon her.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Would you do it today?”

He stared at her. “What?”

“Would you abandon such a cause today if people told you it was foolish?” She believed that she knew the answer. After all, had Alynna not told her how he had fought to save Shireen when she had been sick with Greyscale? He had not listened when the maesters told him to give up. _He chose to fight for her._

His face went very still, and he seemed to consider the question for a long moment. “It would depend on the cause. And on whether I respected the opinion of the people calling me foolish,” he eventually said.

“That is no proper answer,” she said, pursing her lips. “Besides, I think kindness is its own reward.”

He searched her eyes before his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Perhaps.” 

The change in his expression was subtle, but Sansa’s heart immediately began to beat faster. _We are alone,_ she realised. _The door is shut._ Heart thundering now, she parted her lips in an unspoken invitation. 

Slowly, Stannis leaned in to accept her silent offer of a kiss, touching his lips lightly to hers. A hand cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek where her skin was still tacky with dried tears. It was odd to think she had just been crying. The emotions had not left her drained as they sometimes did; she felt as if she had released them. As if a part of the burden had been taken away. Breathing deeply through her nose, she angled her chin to encourage a deeper kiss.

A tremor passed through his hand where he held her cheek, and a sound that seemed to come from Stannis’s chest escaped him, hitting her lips with a warm breath of air. After that, Sansa could not keep track of things. His tongue slid over hers, his mouth moving more greedily than it ever had before. The taste of the kiss was faintly flavoured with the salt of her tears, but his particular flavour - lemon water and something indefinable - was rapidly overpowering it. She tried to match his fervour, using her tongue the way he seemed to like. Her skin tingling, she attempted to do something he had occasionally done to her, and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth.

Another noise rumbled up from his chest, and he tore himself away, his breathing loud. He did not stop kissing her, however. His mouth moved to her cheeks, the lobes of her ears, and down her neck. His lips were hot and soft, his close-cropped beard a sharp contrast. It was shocking how different the sensation was on her neck compared with her lips. The heat that had been pooling deep inside of her, growing steadily more insistent, suddenly came alive, demanding more.

She needed to be closer to him.

It was surprisingly easy to tug on her gown’s skirts and swing her leg over his knees so that she straddled his lap, fabric pooling between them.

“Sansa,” he groaned against her neck. If he said something else after he spoke her name, it was too garbled for her to understand. His hands had gone to her waist, clutching at her as if to keep her still, but there was barely any strength to his grip. She was able to settle herself without much trouble, her eyes closed as she pressed her chest firmly to his, her body singing at the firm pressure between her thighs.

 _Is that his manhood?_ Jeyne had described what it should feel like through his clothes, but the material of his breeches was so coarse, and it was bunched up with the way he was sitting… She shifted experimentally.

Stannis’s hands tightened around her waist, and she heard a soft hissing sound against her neck. His lips were no longer moving; he was merely pressing his face into the crook of her neck.

Cheeks blazing with a strange, unfamiliar heat that seemed to be climbing up from her chest and radiating to the tips of her fingers, Sansa began to rock softly against him, chasing the deep sensations of pleasure that the little changes in pressure brought her. They spiked and faded in the most frustrating, delightful way, promising something better: something just out of reach. Low moans and strange mewling sounds escaped her, and partly to distract herself, and partly to distract him, she trailed her hands from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, the back of his head, and then down again.

She gasped when his hands moved, the grip on her waist becoming a tight embrace, his arms encircling her and crushing her, his breathing coming out jagged and hoarse. His hips were twitching beneath her, and he moved his head to kiss her lips once again, licking into her mouth as soon as she parted them, a hand moving to cup her rear through her dress and press - no, _grind_ \- her to him.

Moaning into his mouth, her heart about to explode, she shuddered. A wave of wet, pulsing heat that started between her thighs was spiralling outward in a heady rush, until her toes practically curled with it.

_Gods._

Their kiss broke, and for a while she was aware of nothing but his heavy breathing and her own pounding heart. Her blood was the ocean after a storm, and she was not certain whether she needed to lie down, or whether she needed _more._

“You should go,” Stannis said in a hoarse, unrecognisable voice. It seemed deeper, and yet strained to the point of breaking.

“Did you… ” She hesitated. Jeyne had explained it, but none of the words she had used seemed appropriate in the least. “... finish?”

He inhaled slowly, his body tensing up. “No,” he said as he breathed out, his jaw clenching.

“Can I help?” she whispered, shifting around curiously. She peered downwards, but couldn’t see much due to her skirt.

He swallowed, his nostrils flaring. “No.”

“Are you certain?” She bit her lip. “If you showed me how I’m sure I could learn -”

“We are not yet married, Sansa,” he said sharply. His hands were on her waist again. This time she could feel his full strength as he lifted her off his lap, depositing her on the bench beside him. He had barely released her when there was a loud knock at the door.

“Lady Sansa?” Ser Gerald’s voice said. He sounded uncharacteristically serious. Worried, even. “Are you in there?”

Ser Barristan’s deeper voice said something, but as he was not yelling, Sansa could not hear what it was.

“Your Grace?” Ser Gerald continued, knocking again. “Have you seen Lady Sansa? Is she with you?”

Her stomach squirming, she looked at Stannis for instructions. _Should we pretend that I’m not here?_

Stannis was pinching the bridge of his nose. “You should answer the door.” He shifted with a grimace. “Before he alerts the entire castle to the fact that you’ve gone missing.”

Suddenly aware of what she must look like, Sansa got to her feet and did her best to smooth out her skirts and straighten her hair. Stannis’s handkerchief fell to the floor, and she hastily picked it up, tucking it into her sleeve. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _We did nothing wrong. We are betrothed._ Her stomach still squirming, she went to the door and opened it.

“I am here, ser. No need to shout.” She kept her chin up, and hoped her face was not very red.

Ser Gerald was standing right in front of her, his eyes a little wild, his fist in mid-air. Ser Barristan was behind him, his expression stern. It became apologetic when he met her gaze, however. 

Ser Gerald dropped his fist. “My lady,” he said, blinking. His surprise was quick to fade, and he craned his neck to see into the solar. “And Your Grace,” he said, the worry draining from his face to be replaced with something much more familiar: amusement.

“See,” Ser Barristan said, his tone a touch sharp, “they’re perfectly well. Lady Sansa is in no danger.”

Ser Gerald’s amusement yielded to a furrowed brow and he turned to speak to Ser Barristan in a low voice. “You said yourself that you did not see them come here, ser. Lady Sansa and His Grace might easily have parted ways. She might have gone to the godswood. Anything might have happened.” Ser Gerald’s tone was agitated, but not disrespectful. Ser Barristan sighed, but said nothing. Ser Gerald turned back to her. “And judging by the look of these two, we have arrived with not a moment to spare,” he said more loudly, a smile spreading lazily over his face. “Tut-tut, my lady. What will your uncle say?”

She glared at him, her stomach flipping uncomfortably.

“He will say nothing,” Stannis said, suddenly standing behind her. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh; she had not heard him move. “And neither will you.”

Sansa could not see the look on Stannis’s face, but judging by the way Ser Gerald stopped smiling and took a step backwards, it was nothing pleasant.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ser Gerald said. But though his tone was serious, he still cast her a quick teasing glance before directing his eyes at the floor.

Sansa internalised a sigh. _He will be intolerable after this._

***

Later, when her maids helped her undress, Sansa found Stannis’s handkerchief again. She turned it over in her hands, stroking it with the tips of her fingers. The fabric was very fine, but showed signs of wear and tear. _It must be old._ The embroidery at the edges was clumsy and childish. There were a lot of uneven stitches, and Sansa thought of Arya with a fleeting smile, her chest tightening. _Did Shireen make this when she was younger?_

“Shall I have that washed for you, m’lady?”

Sansa looked from the handkerchief to her maid. Slowly, she nodded, the tightness in her chest receding. Warmth replaced it, filling her heart. “Please do. But have it gently treated. I believe the king treasures it.”


	19. No Heart of Iron

Sansa’s heart was racing. Anticipation and excitement bubbled within her, and kept having to cover her mouth, knowing that she needed to stay quiet.

She was hidden in Stannis’s empty solar, standing behind the floor-length velvet curtains by the windows. It was childish, perhaps, but Sansa did not care. It had been a week since they’d sat together - on the bench she could see if she peered through a small gap between the curtains - talking about Lady and Proudwing. _And kissing,_ she thought, her body flushing at the memory. They hadn’t had a proper moment alone since, and so she and Jeyne had thought of a plan to remedy the situation.

While Sansa hid in the solar, Jeyne distracted Sansa’s guard. They’d made sure to attempt this while it was not Ser Gerald, but one of the Stark household guards that was with her. Jeyne was meant to engage him in conversation, and lure him a few steps away from the door to Stannis’s solar. That way, when Stannis himself arrived, he would not suspect Sansa was hidden inside.

He usually came to his solar to work as he broke his fast, and he was usually alone. Sansa intended to reveal herself as soon as he closed the door, walk up to him, and ask him whether he had not missed her kisses. She closed her eyes and imagined his expression; startled at first, but then pleased. Perhaps even a little… hungry. (For something other than the porridge of oats he preferred at the start of the day.)

A thrill ran through her. Her heart was still beating much quicker than it ought.

_Perhaps he will scold me a little._ But she did not think he would truly be put out with her.

The door swung open, and Sansa held her breath, listening.

“I’m telling you, something is not as it should be, my king,” Lord Buckler’s deep voice said. “Fewer merchant ships have been sighted on this side of the Narrow Sea of late. The weather has not been pleasant, mind, but no worse than it has been in the past months. I’ve been expecting a shipment from Tyrosh, and I grow weary of waiting. Has your master of whisperers heard anything?”

Sansa peered through the gap in the curtains, and saw that Stannis had walked into the solar along with Lord Buckler and Lord Davos. Stannis took a seat at his desk, and the other two took the chairs on the other side of it.

“There are always whispers,” Stannis said, sounding irritated. “Whether they can be relied on as truth is another matter.”

“Well?” Lord Buckler’s chair creaked. “Is it piracy? Should not your master of ships send a few war galleys to patrol the waters?”

“As it happens, Dale has been speaking of sailing out to investigate the matter,” Davos said, his voice even and calm.

_So that is why Dale was so distracted during our last lesson._

Stannis made an affirmative noise. “See that he does.”

Lord Buckler slapped his thighs. “Excellent! Perhaps I will receive the sea snails I ordered before the royal wedding rolls around, then!” He barked out a laugh.

“Indeed.” Stannis’s voice was strained, and Sansa could see that his expression had turned sour.

“How many months until the blessed event, again?” Lord Buckler asked in an overly nonchalant voice.

“Seven.” The word was spoken through gritted teeth.

“Oho,” Lord Buckler chuckled and turned to Davos. “Has His Grace been this wound up since Lady Sansa came to King’s Landing, or is this a recent development?”

“Mind your tongue,” Stannis said, his tone sharp as Valyrian steel.

“My apologies if my tongue offends you, Your Grace,” Lord Buckler said, still half-chuckling. “But if you should wish to take the edge off, I can recommend a truly talented young lady from Chataya’s. You’d be pleased by _her_ tongue, I’d wager.”

Sansa’s insides clenched up painfully. _Chataya’s? Isn’t that a pillow house?_

A loud noise - wood scraping over stone - almost startled Sansa enough to give herself away, but she managed to keep herself silent and still. Through the gap in the curtains she could see that Stannis had risen from his chair, lunged across the desk, and had grabbed the front of Lord Buckler’s handsome doublet, forcing him to get up too, or choke.

Davos was still sitting, but Sansa could not see his face as he had his back to her.

“I am not my whoremonger brother,” Stannis hissed.

Sansa placed a hand over her mouth, her heart pounding.

“No, no, of course,” Lord Buckler said, his voice much higher than it had been up until now. “A thousand apologies, my king.”

Stannis released him, and sat back down. Lord Buckler remained standing. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss?” Stannis asked, his voice decidedly calmer, though his tone was still sharp.

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

Lord Buckler bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Very quickly, he made his way to the door and left.

There was a brief pause, and Sansa’s heart slowed. She hardly dared to breathe, however.

“Was that necessary?” Davos said, sounding half amused, half exasperated.

“Yes,” Stannis said, scowling at the door.

“Really?” Davos huffed, shaking his head. “I fear Lord Buckler may have had a point.”

“You think I ought to buy a whore?” Stannis snapped.

_No._ Sansa’s stomach turned over.

“No,” Davos said calmly. “But perhaps you might consider finding another way to… become less wound up.”

“I am not wound up,” Stannis said heatedly, in a decidedly wound up tone of voice.

Davos did not respond at once, and for a moment the only sound Sansa could hear was the wind’s howls and whistles on the other side of the cold glass window. Her stomach had not quite settled. The thought of Stannis with a whore was playing in her mind like some horrible, jarring note, sending piercing needles through her heart.

_He wouldn’t. He said he wouldn’t. And Mother said he was loyal._

“You might consider going for walks,” Davos eventually said. “Fresh air can be remarkably relaxing.”

“I get plenty of fresh air on the training field.” Stannis blew out a loud breath. “No. The only way I will have peace is to have this wedding over and done with as soon as possible. If half of what Lord Varys speaks of indeed comes to pass… or should the Wall be breached…” Another, more frustrated breath. “I fear the peace we have been enjoying will soon run out.”

Fresh pain shot through her. _He just wants the wedding over and done with?_

Davos gave a heavy sigh. “I fear it too.” He cocked his head to the side. “But it seems to me that lately you may have other reasons to wish for an earlier wedding date.” A teasing thread of amusement laced its way through his words; subtle, but there. “Sansa is a charming young lady.”

Sansa held her breath as she watched Stannis drag a palm from his forehead to his chin, listening with all her might for his response. 

“Charming? At times I wonder if she is a witch,” he muttered. “I think of her constantly. It is as if she has put me under some maddening spell.”

Her stomach was the wrong way up again, her heart fluttering in her throat, blood rushing to her cheeks. _I need to sit down._

Davos laughed. “If she is a witch, I am a sea snail.”

Amusement flickered in Stannis’s eyes. “Even so.” His countenance became more serious. “She sees what most do not.” He stared thoughtfully into the middle distance.

“Does she now?”

“Yes. Or no.” Stannis rubbed at his face again. “Sometimes it is a matter of what she _doesn’t_ see. I have never seen her eyes linger on Shireen’s scars.” His expression softened when he spoke of Shireen, and Sansa thought of the handkerchief she still carried with her. 

“It has been my experience that Shireen’s scars tend to disappear once one grows to love her. And it is clear as day that Sansa loves her dearly.” There was affection in Davos’s voice, and Sansa could well imagine the smile in his kind, brown eyes though she could not see his face.

Stannis nodded slowly. His eyes still seemed focused on something only he could see. “I think Shireen has grown to love her back.”

_Truly?_ Sansa swallowed, a flood of emotion swelling within her. They were good friends, but Sansa had not dared to hope… and Shireen had not said...

Davos made an amused sound. “ _Shireen_ has, has she?”

Her heart jumped. _What is he implying?_

Stannis cleared his throat, his eyes suddenly snapping back into focus. His face held a red tinge that had not been there a moment ago. “Yes.” He frowned at Davos, squaring his shoulders.

“Well, _Shireen_ has found a worthy recipient of her love in Lady Sansa. The court speaks of little but her beauty and goodness.”

More heat rose to Sansa’s face, and she had to cover her mouth again to keep from breathing too loudly. _Does he mean…?_

“Beauty is fleeting,” Stannis muttered. “And goodness a matter of opinion. But she is diligent in her studies, dutiful, and not devoid of all sense.” 

Davos laughed. “‘Not devoid of all sense’? My friend, you must be careful with such high praise, or I will have no choice but to conclude you to be quite besotted.”

Stannis pressed his lips together and glared at Davos, but there was no true venom in his gaze. Sansa was barely able to pay attention to it; her mind was reeling.

_Stannis? Besotted?_

Davos rose from his chair. “As much as I would like to sit here and discuss Lady Sansa’s many admirable qualities until nightfall, I think I ought to go and find Dale.”

“I’ll join you,” Stannis said, getting up as well.

Sansa watched them go, her heart in her throat. A part of her wanted to run from out of her hiding place and throw her arms around Stannis’s neck, but she knew she could not. He would not be pleased to have been overheard discussing such private matters.

Since their first kiss, Sansa had been growing more and more certain that Stannis did not have an iron heart as she had once believed. The more time they spent in each other’s company, the more she came to realise that he was just a man like any other; made of flesh, blood, and bone. He had his strengths and his weaknesses, his likes and dislikes, and passions that ran deep.

Perhaps she did not yet know everything there was to know about him, but the ever-shrinking shard of fear she had been carrying since their betrothal had been decided upon, was suddenly gone. Melted away like so much snow upon a warm palm.

***

While Dale was sailing the Narrow Sea, searching for the pirates that were delaying Lord Buckler’s shipment of sea snails, Sansa was free to spend the time allotted to lessons with the master of ships as she wished. Mostly she had been using the time to play cyvasse with Shireen or Alynna, but today it was her wish to finally return Stannis’s handkerchief.

“May I walk with you?” she asked, having waylaid him on his way inside from the training field. His face was flushed with exercise, sweat still pearling at his brow. He was wearing a breastplate, but not carrying any weapons aside from the sword sheathed in its scabbard at his belt.

“If you wish,” he said. “Though I am not going far. I need to clean up.”

The image of Stannis unclothed - bathing - invaded her mind, and she blushed. “You’re not returning to your chambers to do that?” 

“No.” He nodded at a door at the other end of the corridor, perhaps twenty paces away. “I have hot water and a change of clothes waiting for me in there.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder. They were standing in the mouth of the corridor, the training field still visible behind them, and her guard - a young man named Jacke - had wandered over to talk to a friend of his while she’d been waiting. They seemed to be examining each other’s swords. Ser Barristan, standing nearer, caught her eye for a moment, and sent her a small smile before turning to look the other way. “Really?” she asked, looking back at Stannis, her heart quickening its pace. “May I see?”

“You want to see the room where I get cleaned up?” Stannis was staring at her as if she’d gone mad.

She gave him a look. _I want an excuse to be alone with you for a moment._ “Yes, please.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Fine,” he said, gesturing for her to walk down the corridor ahead of him. Ser Barristan did not follow them. Neither did Jacke. Once they’d taken a few steps, the training field was no longer in view, though she could still hear the sounds of swords clashing, men talking, and armour creaking.

“I shall have to have a word with Ser Gerald about how careless your household guards are becoming,” Stannis said, though he did not sound as if he relished the task.

“Ser Barristan is not following you in here,” Sansa pointed out.

“He’s close at hand. And paying attention to his surroundings.”

Sansa didn’t respond to that. They had reached the door, and Stannis held it open for her. She walked through, but he lingered near the doorway, leaving the door ajar. “Hot water and space enough to get dressed,” he said curtly, his hand making a sweeping gesture. The walls were rough stone, and there was not a single window. There were fresh rushes on the floor, however, and a pair of torches lit the space well enough.

“And you get dressed on your own?” Sansa asked, walking into the room and checking the temperature of the water. It was hot, but there was not a lot of it. Two steaming buckets, and next to them there lay a neat pile of linen cloths, as well as a bar of soap. Clean clothes had been folded and placed on a wooden stool nearby. Polished boots stood at the ready on the floor. “I always need help with my gowns.” 

“My squire assists me with the armour at times. But simple clothing is easy to manage,” Stannis muttered, still lingering near the door.

She nodded, considering him in silence for a moment. He was staring at her with heat in his gaze, but keeping himself determinedly at a distance. “Come here,” she said, giving him an impish smile. “I have something for you.”

Stannis looked out into the corridor and back at her, his jaw working. He took a step closer. Then another.

She held her hands behind her back, smiling at him. “Pick a hand.”

He frowned. “I pick the hand that holds whatever it is you have for me.”

“That is not how the game is played!” she protested, smiling more widely. “But here, it is this one.” She held out her right hand, showing him his own handkerchief. “I considered making you a new one,” she said, softening her voice, “but I thought you would still want this one back. Shireen made it, did she not?”

Stannis nodded, accepting the handkerchief and holding it a little awkwardly in front of him. “I - yes.”

“Thank you for lending it to me,” she said, stretching her neck to kiss his cheek. He smelled strongly of sweat, but it was fresh sweat, so she did not mind. She kept her face close to his once she’d kissed him, and looked into his eyes. There was tenderness there, if one knew how to look.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice hoarse. He turned to place the handkerchief carefully on top of the folded pile of clean clothing. She followed him, stepping close so that she was almost chest to chest with him when he turned back to face her.

They stared into each other’s eyes.

There was so much she wanted to say to him. Ask him. Had Davos been right to imply what he had implied? Her heart expanded until she could feel every beat, and a thousand butterflies appeared in her stomach.

“Sansa…” His gaze was darkening, and his eyes seemed drawn to her lips.

She closed her eyes, her toes curling inside her slippers at the way his voice had deepened. “Are you certain you do not need any help?” she whispered. Wicked thoughts were rapidly taking over her mind, inspiring wicked words. “I could assist you with your breastplate if you wish.” Her hands wandered, landing on his belt.

His head turned towards the door that was still ajar. “That would... not be appropriate.” But he did not move out of her reach.

“Isn’t it?” she said, making her voice innocent. “I will see you unclothed when I am your wife.” She had already managed to unbuckle his belt, and the weight of his sword brought it crashing to the floor. Her fingers found the straps of his breastplate next.

“ _Sansa._ ” His voice was strained now.

“ _Stannis,_ ” she said teasingly in return, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss him again, this time on the lips. It was hard to believe that she had ever been wary of him.

He groaned, buried his hands in her hair, and deepened the kiss as her fingers made quick work of the fastenings that secured his breastplate. Sansa knew Jacke or a passing servant might come in at any moment, but her heart only raced faster at the thought. _And perhaps Ser Barristan will be kind enough to keep the corridor free of intruders for a little while…_

Their kiss grew more passionate when his breastplate finally came off, his hands coming to rest on her waist, his grip heavy and firm. And though it was hard to do anything complicated while he was kissing her so thoroughly - all lips and tongue and the occasional clash of their teeth - her fingers were determined to stay on their path. She had searched out the hidden laces of his leather jerkin, working nimbly to undo them.

Perhaps Stannis was in league with her unruly fingers, for as soon as she had the laces loose, he pulled his jerkin off, leaving his chest bare in front of her. He was pale, and so sweaty that his chest hair was plastered to his skin. She barely had a moment to look, however. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her greedily, moving from her lips to her neck and back again.

She moaned when he sucked on her pulse point, practically going limp in his embrace. It was almost as if her muscles had all stopped working at once, and the needy ache between her thighs cried out for relief. Struggling to keep her wits, and wanting him to feel the same way she did, she searched out the hard length at the front of his breeches. She didn’t quite know what to do once she found it - Jeyne’s advice had been confusing - but she didn’t get a chance to try anything beyond one experimental squeeze before he pulled away. He made a sound that was more like the hiss of an angry cat than anything else, his chest expanding in a very interesting way with every inhale. “You must go,” he said sharply. “Now.”

Hardly thinking properly at all, Sansa bit her lip. “We could close the door,” she whispered, her voice unrecognisable to her ears. “I could… help you wash.”

Stannis swore under his breath, and Sansa’s cheeks burned at his language. She had never heard him use words like that. He buried a hand in her hair once more and pressed his lips against hers for the briefest of moments. “Do not tempt me.” His voice was guttural, and heat shot through her at the sound of it, pooling and pulsing deep at her core. She squeezed her thighs together, knowing it would not help.

He released her and took a step back, clearing a path to the door.

She let herself look at him for only a moment, her cheeks still burning furiously, before hurrying out to the corridor. The door closed behind her almost at once, and she leaned against it, taking deep, calming breaths. Stannis was perhaps not muscled like an ox, but Sansa thought there was something to be said for his long, wiry build. And even though he was not bulging with muscle, he was certainly more than sinew and bone. She had felt his strength when he’d embraced her, and she’d felt the heat of his skin… nothing between their chests but her own clothing.

With one last - only slightly shaky - breath, Sansa pushed herself off the door and smoothed her skirts down. Slowly, she began to walk back towards the training field. _I hope Jacke hasn’t noticed that I disappeared._

As she neared the entrance to the training field, Ser Barristan walked towards her, nodding at her in greeting as they passed one another. “My lady,” he murmured, his face composed aside from the glint in his eyes.

“Ser,” she said, doing her best not to blush. She continued out to the field, looking around for Jacke, but almost turned around to go straight back inside when she saw who was standing next to him.

“There she is,” Jacke said, pointing her out with a relieved expression.

Ser Gerald grabbed Jacke by the upper arm and dragged him towards her.

She tried not to grimace, and straightened her back. “Good morning, Ser Gerald.”

“Did you lose something, my lady?” Ser Gerald asked, releasing Jacke roughly so that he stumbled.

Jacke found his feet and crossed his arms, aiming a mutinous expression at Ser Gerald. “She’s _fine._ I knew exactly where she was the whole time.”

“I don’t believe I was speaking to you,” Ser Gerald said, glaring.

“Ser Gerald, please,” Sansa said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I was only having a word with His Grace a few paces away. Stannis would not have seen me come to any harm.”

Jacke shot her a grateful look.

Ser Gerald scowled at her, and then at Jacke. “Why are you still standing here?” he said, his tone both exasperated and disgusted. “Go! I will see you on the training field tomorrow morning. Be late at your peril.”

Jacke furrowed his brow. “Go? But it is my shift until the midday meal.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Jacke left in a huff, his armour clanging noisily as he went. Ser Gerald glared after him until he was out of sight, and then his face transformed completely. He looked at Sansa with a sly smirk. “A word with His Grace, was it?” He made a show of examining her closely. “A word that has your hair in that state?” He chuckled. “I’d like to hear that word.”

One of Stannis’s swear words came to mind as Sansa’s hand flew to the back of her head, finding that her hair was most definitely in disarray. “It must have been the wind,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone even. “I will go and have my maid see to it.” _Or it might be good practise for Ella._ She began to walk purposefully towards the Maidenvault, hoping that he would fall behind and be quiet.

He kept pace with her. “Well, I have heard it said that words are wind, my lady,” he said, his amusement undisguised, “but I rather think someone would have had to make that mess by hand.”

“I’m sure you are mistaken, ser.” Her face was burning. She tried to walk a little faster.

“And I’m sure I’m not,” he said, chuckling again. “Perhaps I will ask His Grace about it tomorrow morning, see whether he thinks the wind was to blame…”

Biting back a very Arya-like retort, Sansa kept her chin up. “I don’t see why you’d waste his time with such a frivolous question.”

“Because it’s very entertaining,” Ser Gerald said, grinning widely. “That’s why.”

“It is not your job to be entertained,” she said pertly.

“I know,” Ser Gerald said, serious for once. But then his eyes were dancing with amusement once more. “The entertainment’s a perk.” He gave a roguish wink, and fell behind, leaving her to walk on in silent outrage.

***

Sansa was quite thoroughly ready to be married at last.

The wedding was still six whole months away, however. An unbearably vast stretch of time. Especially since Stannis was growing busier and busier by the day, and the private moments they managed to steal were becoming scarcer and shorter.

_And much more frustrating._

“He still hasn’t let you touch it?” Jeyne asked, sipping her tea carefully as it was still steaming.

_Only for a second._ Sansa sighed, blushing faintly at the memory. “Not really.”

“Not even through his breeches?”

“We’ve not had very much time for any of that.”

Jeyne scrunched up her face in concentration. “But you think he wants you to?”

“I’m sure he wants a lot of things,” Sansa said, blushing more hotly, but ignoring it. “He just insists that we have to wait until we’re married.”

The two ladies were sharing a late breakfast in Sansa’s solar, having lingered overlong on the ramparts overlooking the training field to watch the men at their drills.

“That won’t do at all,” Jeyne said, clicking her tongue impatiently. “He’ll break you on your wedding night.”

Sansa dropped her slice of toast. “ _What?_ ” The word came out oddly high-pitched. _Is that even possible?_

“You saw him on the training field earlier,” Jeyne said, gesturing vaguely. “He’s wound up tighter than a miser’s purse. He nearly _killed_ Ser Gerald.”

It was a near thing, but Sansa managed to repress an inelegant snort. “You’re exaggerating. Besides, you know Ser Gerald had it coming.”

“... Well, yes.” Jeyne giggled. “But I still think you should convince His Grace to do more than kiss before the wedding. It will make everything so much easier.”

Sighing more deeply, Sansa shook her head. _Don’t you think I’ve been trying?_ “I’m beginning to think I should just talk to Uncle Brynden. Ask if we can have the wedding hastened after all.”

Jeyne’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? You feel ready for that?”

Sansa hesitated. She had not told Jeyne - or anyone - what she had overheard Stannis and Davos discuss, but she had dwelled on what had been implied endlessly, turning the words over and over in her mind. _He cares for me. I’m sure of it._ “I do.”

“Well, then I wish you would hurry up and marry,” Jeyne said, smiling dreamily. “Think! We might get pregnant at the same time!”

Sansa’s insides flipped over. “Are you and Devan already trying?”

Jeyne nodded, cheeks turning pink. “Devan is so eager to father an heir. Though I think he would possibly be happier to have a daughter. Lady Marya would dote upon a granddaughter.”

Sansa smiled, thinking that Jeyne was probably right. She could well imagine Lady Marya being very excited to welcome a granddaughter into her family, full of men as it was. But before she could say so, there was an urgent knock at the door.

“Lady Sansa,” a voice said as the door burst open. It was Ser Allard. His face was so drained of colour that it matched his cloak. “You must come with me. At once.”

Sansa’s heart missed a beat, a cold chill ran down her spine. She had seen a man wear that expression before. Her father had looked much the same in the hours before they had fled to Dragonstone. “What’s happened?” 

“Please, make haste, the king wishes to speak to you.”

Jeyne met her eyes, looking every inch as frightened as Sansa felt. She tried to give her friend a reassuring smile. “Lead on, ser.” She turned to face Allard and rose to her feet.

Maegor’s Holdfast was bustling with activity, but Sansa could not see any other pale, frightened faces. Whatever it was that Stannis wanted to tell her, it was clearly not common knowledge yet. Somehow that did not comfort her. She quickened her pace.

Ser Allard led her to the king’s solar, and Sansa thought fleetingly of the morning when Stannis had proposed. She wished her father were her with her now as he had been then. Allard opened the door for her but did not follow her inside.

“Sit.” Stannis was standing by the windows, the pale winter sun not doing much to illuminate his figure. Allard had already closed the door behind her, leaving her and Stannis alone.

She sat.

He turned to face her, his expression a mask of stone. His eyes, however, were ablaze. 

“I won’t waste your time with empty words. Dragonstone has been taken. The Targaryen girl has come.”


	20. Borrowed Cloaks and Borrowed Time

Sansa suppressed a gasp. _The Targaryen girl?_ “I thought she was in Meereen?”

Stannis clenched his jaw. “No longer. Daenerys Targaryen has arrived with a vast fleet, a horde of Dothraki screamers, and - according to Dale - three full-grown dragons.”

Sansa shook her head slowly. “How can she have taken Dragonstone so quickly? Did no one see this vast fleet as it crossed the Narrow Sea?” _Or the dragons?_ “Was there not a garrison?”

“It’s likely that several ships sailed close enough to spot it,” Stannis said, scowling. He was still over by the window, and he turned his face towards the view now, his eyes unseeing. “But the girl’s fleet is commanded by Victarion Greyjoy, and he is not known for his mercy. As for the garrison on Dragonstone… it was no match for such an invading force.”

She closed her eyes and prayed silently for a moment, her heart going out to the inhabitants of Dragonstone. “How did Dale escape?”

A look of grim satisfaction passed over Stannis’s features. “He is not his father’s son for nothing. He used a small boat and the cover of darkness to escape unseen, navigating treacherous waters where none could follow.”

Gratitude filled her breast, but was soon replaced by dread. “And… he really saw dragons?”

Stannis crossed his arms and nodded.

 _Seven save us._ “Will Daenerys attack the city?” She’d gone numb. Cold and numb. _Why? Why has this happened now?_ Sansa had thought that the only army she truly had to worry about was the one her father was fighting at the Wall. A shiver ran down her spine.

Stannis snorted. “I doubt she’s in Dragonstone to take in the sights.”

“What will you do?”

“Gather information. Attempt to negotiate.” He tensed and went very still. “Prepare for battle.”

“How can you prepare for battle against dragons?” Sansa had not seen Harrenhal with her own eyes, but she remembered Old Nan’s stories. An enormous castle; built on fear with human blood mixed into the mortar. And yet, despite its immense size, its thick walls, and high towers, it had been burned by the dragon Balerion until it was as dark and twisted as Harren the Black’s heart. _’For dragon’s fly’_. Sansa might not have been educated in matters of war as her brothers had been, but she knew that fighting dragons never ended well for anyone.

“Lord Varys has been warning the small council of the possibility of this invasion for some time,” Stannis said heavily. “We have not not ignored him.” He paused, giving her a calculating look. “What would you use to defeat a dragon on the cyvasse board?”

She blinked at him, her mind going blank for a moment. “The catapult. Or the trebuchet.”

He nodded. “In truth, they are of little use against the beasts. But the dragon Meraxes was defeated by a scorpion. We have positioned several such weapons in strategic locations, both here in King’s Landing, in the stormlands, and the crownlands. We do not know whether they will work for certain, however. Living dragons are hard to come by, so they have not been properly tested.”

“I see,” she said weakly. She knew that a scorpion was like a large, strange bow that could fire enormous arrows at great speed, but she had never seen one up close. “What else has been done?” she asked.

Approval flashed in his eyes. “The smiths have been kept busy, and for all his faults, Lord Florent has kept the granaries well stocked.” He clenched his jaw, eyes darkening. “Hungry soldiers do not last long.” He looked out the window again for a moment. The winter light had not grown brighter since Sansa’s arrival in the solar, but it was enough to give her a clear view of his face, and throw the lines of his furrowed brow into sharp relief. “Other than that, we prepare the same way we would prepare for any other battle.” He walked over to his desk, placing both hands on the back of his chair and leaning heavily on it.

“Do you mean you intend to muster an army?” She frowned. “Are there any men still in the south you can call to your aid?” _Nearly everyone went north with my father, did they not?_

“The crownlands and the stormlands cannot spare more swords, but there is still the Reach.” Stannis grimaced as he spoke the last. “Though I’m informed they’ve had trouble with Greyjoy reavers, lately.”

“And Dorne?” she asked, noting the omission.

Stannis’s expression darkened. “Lord Varys has had disturbing reports from Dorne.”

 _Disturbing reports?_ She thought back to her last lesson with the master of whisperers, trying to recall whether he’d said anything about Dorne. “He told me there has been an outbreak of greyscale in Wyl, is that -”

“That is the least of it,” Stannis said, releasing the chair and beginning to pace around the room. “It seems Prince Doran has been playing host to Jon Connington and a great number of sellswords for some time.”

 _Connington?_ Sansa searched her memory. _The one who was Hand for a short while before the Mad King died?_ Davos had spoken of him in one of his lessons. _Isn’t he supposed to be dead?_

“Varys believes they will side with the Targaryen girl,” Stannis went on, baring his teeth, stalking back and forth like a caged beast.

“But what of the riverlands? The Vale?” Sansa asked, thinking quickly. “Uncle Edmure would answer your call, I’m sure. And Uncle Brynden says my cousin, Lord Arryn, listens to him. I’m sure he and I could convince Robin to send you aid.”

Stannis nodded, frowning. “I will need every sword available. And yet, if the Targaryen girl is willing to negotiate, a battle may be avoided.”

“How will you negotiate with her?” A throbbing pain had started up at Sansa’s temples. “She has come for the Iron Throne, has she not?”

“Most likely, yes.” He had stopped pacing. “But Varys tells me she has been open to diplomacy in the past. It seems she resorts to violence only when she is presented with no other recourse.” He grimaced. “She has been known to solve her problems by arranging marriages.”

Her heart stopped. _Surely he does not mean… ?_ She looked down at her hands for a moment, doing her best to keep her composure. “She is married, then?”

Stannis did not meet her eyes. “Widowed.”

Sansa was glad she was sitting; the room was spinning. She closed her eyes tightly. “Would you like me to write to Uncle Edmure and Cousin Robin on your behalf?” She fixed him with a pointed look.

He crossed his arms and stared at the floor. “I’m sending you away, Sansa.” His voice sounded different. Raw. “You and Shireen.”

She froze for a moment, several chaotic thoughts flitting across her mind, her heart seizing. _No._ She took several deep breaths. “Where?”

“Tarth.”

 _The Sapphire Isle?_ “Oh.” It was not what she had expected. Struggling to keep her tone even, she clasped her hands together tightly. “Why Tarth?”

“My first thought was to send you both to the Estermonts of Greenstone,” Stannis said, “but Lord Andrew said Evenfall Hall would be more comfortable for ladies of your station. He is making the arrangements with the Lord of Tarth as we speak.” His jaw was working, and though he was looking in her direction, he did not quite meet her eyes. “You should be safe there.” He was standing as still as a statue, several paces away. “But you must leave on the morrow. Dale does not think Victarion’s spies spotted him escape, but we cannot be certain. If the Targaryen girl finds out her element of surprise has been ruined, she may move to strike sooner rather than later, while we haven’t had time to muster our defences.”

Fear settled in the pit of her stomach, clammy and sickening. “Will you make some announcement? To the court? To the smallfolk?” _Shouldn’t everyone have a chance to flee?_

“I will have to alert the City Watch,” Stannis said, speaking almost as if to himself. “And I will have to send word to those who are duty bound to send men-at-arms to their king.” He nodded pointedly at her. “Such as Lord Tully and Lord Arryn.”

She inhaled shakily. “No one else?” She thought of the tradesmen in the city. The kind old bookseller, the young man and his baker’s cart, the beggars, the children...

“The common cattle will stampede in a panic, and leave the city in ruins if they are told,” Stannis said, his mask of stone returning. “And there are some here at court who are just as craven,” he added with a sneer.

“It does not seem just.”

Flint in his eyes, Stannis took a step towards her. “I will do everything in my power to prevent the people of King’s Landing from coming to harm. That includes keeping them from harming themselves. It is winter. Where do you expect them to go?” He took another step, his jaw working. “I cannot send them all to Tarth.”

She bit her lip. “What if I wish to stay?”

“No.” His tone was firm, but Sansa could tell he was not angry.

“But I’ve been learning,” she argued, tilting her chin up. “I could be of assistance.”

He snorted. “I think we established a long time ago that you have never lived through a siege. Nor have you seen combat.” He shook his head. “No, you will go to Tarth and keep my daughter, my _heir_ , safe and cared for. That is my final word as your king, Sansa.”

At the mention of a siege, a block of ice formed in her belly, and she had to suppress a shudder. Yet, a part of her wanted to keep arguing. He’d said himself that he hoped to negotiate before it came to a battle. Or a siege. _I could help. I know I could._ But the thought of Shireen kept her silent. _Without me, she would have no one to hold truly close. She has no mother. No septa. Even Patchface was taken from her._ Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa were all lovely, but they weren’t _family._

“And what of you?” The question left her lips unbidden, and Stannis gave her a questioning look. She rose from her seat and closed the distance between them. “Who will keep you safe?” She touched his cheek, trailing her thumb over the bristles of his beard. _Who will care for you?_

“A king is never safe.” His voice was rough.

She inched closer, asking silently for permission. He looked… conflicted, but did not move away. 

She kissed him. 

Gently at first, touching her lips to his without opening her mouth. He was still and quiet, but did not reject her advances. She continued, peppering his lips with soft little kisses until she felt him relax by a fraction, exhaling a long, near-silent breath. Emboldened, she placed her arms around his neck and pressed herself close, tentatively licking the seam of his lips. He inhaled shakily, and then his arms were suddenly enveloping her, crushing her to him. At the same time he was kissing her back, both forceful and restrained at the same time.

Familiar heat unfurled all through her body, swirling through her veins like a good Dornish red.

“Stannis,” she said, using the opportunity when he kissed her neck. “I would marry you now. Before I must go.”

He groaned, his whole body shuddering against her. She shuddered too. _Gods._

But then she was suddenly cold and bereft. Stannis had taken a step back, leaving their embrace.

“No,” he said, his eyes shut. “That would not be wise.”

Still reeling from the sudden loss of his warmth, she tried to gather her wits. “Why not?”

“You will be safer if we remain unwed.” The words were terse, his expression pinched. “And… if I were to perish, you will be -”

“You will not perish,” Sansa interrupted, her voice higher than before. Her heart was thrashing in her chest, her stomach clenching and rolling horribly. “Promise me you won’t.”

“- you will be untouched. A maid.” Stannis continued firmly. “It will make your life easier. And Varys thinks -” He stopped speaking abruptly, rubbing his brow.

 _He thinks you should keep your options open._ A flash of fury shot through her, burning her lungs. “I don’t want my life to be easier. I want _you._ ” She was breathing as if she had been running from one end of Winterfell to the other. “I love you.”

Stannis’s pinched expression disappeared to make way for a frozen, almost _shocked_ one.

“Please,” she took a step forward, resting a palm on his chest. The leather of his jerkin was cool beneath her palm. “I want to be your wife.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, determined to keep her tears at bay despite the hot pressure behind her eyes and in her throat. “And I want you to be my husband. Even if only for a day, if that is all the time the gods see fit to grant us.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw worked, but he did not push her away. “Sansa…”

“Isn’t it what you want, too?” she whispered, searching his eyes. She had rarely seen those blue depths so filled with emotion.

The tension in his body seemed to snap, and his arms were around her again, holding her close. “This is foolish. The wedding preparations -”

“We don’t need any preparations,” Sansa said, ignoring the pang of loss her words inspired. Her wedding gown was not ready. Her family was still in the north. “All we need is a septon.” She raised her head to look at him. “I know you are not indifferent to me.”

“Indifferent?” A mirthless laugh escaped him, and he shook his head incredulously. “Sansa…” He grasped her shoulders and stared at her, his stony mask was utterly gone, his soul laid bare in his eyes. He swallowed. “I have never been less indifferent. I believe I...” He was still shaking his head slowly. “I did not think you could…” Again he swallowed, searching her eyes. “You love me?”

She did not hesitate. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers, his grip on her shoulders tightening. They were both breathing hard, and Sansa matched her inhales to his until they were in tandem. 

“And I you.” 

The words were spoken in the quietest of whispers, but Sansa heard him as clearly as if he’d shouted. Her heart expanded so fast that she thought her chest would not contain it. Her throat closed up and her eyes filled with tears.

“Lord Varys will not be pleased,” he murmured, kissing her brow.

She gave a wet laugh. “Then you agree? We are to marry?”

Stannis looked at her again. “Are you certain that is what you wish?” He searched her eyes, his expression fierce with concentration.

She took a calming breath and blinked back her tears. There would be no feast. No flowers, no dancing. 

“ _Yes._ ” 

The loss was nothing to what she would gain.

The kiss that followed was near-bruising in its intensity, and as raw as what Sansa was feeling. She welcomed every inch of it, her eyes closing as she lost herself, forgetting everything but what they were experiencing in that very shining moment.

“Come,” he said, a thousand years later, when their kiss ended.

Her mind wandered as Stannis hurriedly escorted her through Maegor’s Holdfast, Ser Allard trailing after them. It was as if she were floating above her body, looking down at herself as she half-ran to keep up with Stannis. Her thoughts jumped from one thing to the next, never lingering too long on any one subject. She saw her mother’s face, heard her sister’s voice, then Jeyne’s, and recalled every single kiss she and Stannis had shared over the past months. She thought of her family in Winterfell, of sweet Lady and all the other direwolves. Even Ghost. How must Jon and Ghost be faring at the Wall? And Father? What would happen with the war there, now that Daenerys Targaryen had arrived? Did she really have dragons? Would she ever get to see one? Did she _want_ to see one? She thought of Shireen and the stories Shireen had told her of Dragonstone and the stone dragons that had frightened her when she was little.

Sansa was startled when Stannis came to a halt. They had reached the royal sept.

“Ser Allard,” Stannis said, facing the knight. “Go and find your father and the princess. Bring them back here.” He glanced at her, his brow a little furrowed. “And bring Ser Brynden Tully and Lady Jeyne Seaworth, too.”

Sansa’s heart swelled. It would be lovely to have Uncle Brynden and Jeyne present for this. Aside from Stannis and Shireen, they were her closest family here. Strangely, her insides ached even as they warmed, and her eyes stung as she thought of Mother and Father again. She wound herself around the king’s arm and clung to him as he walked into the sept and found the septon. His muscles flexed in response to her grip, drawing her closer.

She tried to concentrate on the conversation Stannis was now having with the septon, but her mind was still unsettled, flitting from one thing to the next like a bird unable to settle on one branch.

 _Is this truly happening?_

She didn’t know what she was feeling. It was too much. Too much of everything. She closed her eyes, breathed through her nose, and focused on holding onto Stannis and letting his voice, and the septon’s, soothe her.

“Sansa!” Jeyne’s voice was like a beacon, and Sansa’s eyes popped open.

Jeyne was smiling. “I can’t believe you! Allard made me so worried when he fetched you earlier, and now I find out that it was all a plot!” Devan was standing beside Jeyne, looking both amused and very fond of his wife. “I can’t believe you’ve already managed to hasten the wedding!”

Sansa hesitated. “What did Allard tell you?”

“Nothing!” Jeyne exclaimed. “He just said we should come here, and that he had to go find his father next. But what else could be happening?”

“There was no plot,” Sansa said. “We’ll explain once everyone is here.”

Davos and Shireen arrived shortly, followed soon after by Uncle Brynden, and unexpectedly, Ser Barristan Selmy. But though it had not been a long wait, Jeyne had fidgeted as if she had never suffered a longer one in her life.

Once everyone was present, the door to the sept had been closed, and the small group was quiet and attentive, Stannis spoke.

“The Targaryen girl has taken Dragonstone.” 

Jeyne’s excited smile faded and her eyes widened. Devan drew in a loud breath, and Shireen was blinking rapidly. Davos and the septon did not betray any emotion, standing silent and grim. Ser Barristan did not look particularly surprised either.

“What?” Uncle Brynden said, clutching at the statue of the Father. The suspicious expression he had been wearing before Stannis had spoken had been wiped clean away, and he was shaking his head as if he did not believe his ears.

“I have decided to send the princess and my betrothed to Tarth.” Stannis paused, cleared his throat, and glanced at Davos. “Before Lady Sansa goes… it is our wish to be wed.” He looked at Sansa as he spoke, and she smiled at him, her heart pounding.

“ _What?_ ” Brynden repeated, more loudly.

Though still pale with shock, Jeyne gave an excited gasp, her hands jumping up to cover her mouth. Shireen looked excited too, though she made no sound. Sansa exchanged meaningful glances with them both before turning to her uncle, shooting him a pleading look. “It is what we both want,” she said in a clear voice.

Uncle Brynden frowned, staring at her, but said nothing.

“Now?” Davos asked.

“Yes,” Stannis said.

Stannis and Davos looked at one another, and it seemed to Sansa that they were having a wordless conversation. Within seconds the lines on Lord Seaworth’s forehead smoothed out, and he smiled. “Congratulations are in order, then.”

“Not until after the ceremony.”

“Oh aye, naturally.”

As if they had all agreed on it beforehand, they turned as one to look at Uncle Brynden. 

“I would speak to Lady Sansa for a moment, Your Grace,” he said, his frown still in place.

Stannis nodded curtly.

Sansa and Brynden found a secluded spot near the altar of the Smith, and her uncle wasted no time. 

“My dear… has His Grace pressured you into this?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder lightly, his eyes serious.

“No.” She shook her head. “I swear it. He wanted to send me away without marrying me first. This was - this was my idea.” She hesitated, her face warming. “We’re in love, Uncle.”

Brynden searched her eyes, his expression softening. “Well, what are we standing over here for, then?” He embraced her quickly, releasing her with a kiss to her forehead.

Upon their return to the others, Sansa smiled brightly at them all, but especially at Stannis. The tension in his shoulders relaxed by a margin, and there was a flicker of relief in his eyes. 

“Well, are we to have a wedding or not?” Uncle Brynden said in his smoky voice, raising a brow.

Everyone looked expectantly at the septon. He blinked owlishly for just a moment before settling his face into a dignified, stoic expression. “If we are all ready, we can begin,” he said, his voice calm.

Somehow his calm seemed to spread out and wash over her, and Sansa’s heart slowed for the first time in what felt like hours.

With the crystals in the high windows turning the faint winter light to rainbows that danced across the pale marble of the marriage altar, the ceremony began.

It was one she was intimately familiar with, and as she knew the words by heart it soothed her mind to hear them. It felt like settling into a dance her body could follow in her sleep, or performing a piece of music she had played a thousand times before. At the same time it was like hearing a song she had loved since she was a child for the very first time. The fine hairs all over her body seemed to stand on end, and her vision became blurry with tears.

Ser Barristan offered his white cloak to stand in as her maiden’s cloak, and they used the cloak Stannis had been wearing - a rather plain black one - as her bride’s cloak. He swallowed thickly as he fastened it for her, and when their eyes met Sansa stopped breathing. He was looking at her with an expression she had rarely seen him wear before: vulnerable and utterly unguarded. He did not kiss her cheek as he finished fastening the clasp, but tucked an errant lock of her hair behind an ear, stroking her temple with his thumb. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of incense that permeated the air, her heart fluttering.

They did not kiss until the ceremony called for them to, and it was only a chaste brush of his lips against hers, and yet Sansa had never felt more connected to him.

Once it was over, Sansa could not stop shaking - or vibrating, really - and though she hugged Uncle Brynden, Ser Barristan, Jeyne, and Shireen and accepted affectionate pecks on her cheek from Davos and Devan, all she really wanted to do was wrap herself around Stannis and never let go. She needed to be alone with him. She needed to _talk_ to him. She almost glared at Jeyne when she insisted they all had to take lunch together, and drink a toast to the king and queen.

 _Queen?_ she thought faintly. _Of course._ But the coronation ceremony would have to wait.

Despite her desire to be alone with Stannis she did not have the heart to be annoyed with Jeyne for long. And lunch was quite lovely, though the food was no different from what she would usually have. It was made special by the occasion, and by the people sharing the table with her.

“To the best king and queen Westeros could hope for,” Davos said as they tucked into the steaming joints of roast aurochs that had just been set before them, lifting his cup. “Long may they live.” His words were spoken with a fierceness that filled Sansa’s heart. _Yes,_ she thought as she lifted her cup in return, sending a prayer to the Father. _Please let him live for as long as good health allows. Please do not let war take him away too soon._

Stannis was quiet throughout the lunch, but when she reached for his hand under the table, he always squeezed back. His eyes were far away, however, and she could tell his mind was heavy with worry.

Once the last drop of cream, and the last sweet crumb of their dessert had disappeared, Stannis got to his feet. “Lord Davos. We must continue.” He turned to her, lifted her hand to his mouth and gave it a surprisingly courtly kiss. “My lady,” he said, meeting her eyes. In a low voice he added, “I will see you in my chambers tonight.”

Her stomach swooped, and blood rushed to her face. She could not speak, so all she did was nod. _Why not now?_ an impatient voice at the back of her mind supplied. But she knew why. It would not be proper. And she had plenty to do before she could think of retiring to bed. She had to organise the journey to Tarth, after all. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and found her voice. “Don’t keep me waiting, my king.” She made sure to speak as quietly as Stannis had, so that only he would hear, but judging by the way Jeyne stifled a giggle, something in their expressions betrayed them.

Sansa closed her eyes and blew out a long, silent breath. _It’s going to be a long day._

***

As much as Sansa had been eager to retire early, there had been no shortage of tasks to accomplish after the wedding lunch. She had been required to make one decision after another - What would she take with her? What would she leave behind? Would her entire household be able to accompany her? - and then she’d had to supervise as her maids began the process of packing her the most essential pieces of her wardrobe, and perform an endless amount of organisational tasks that would have been easy on their own, but became a slog now that they all needed to be taken care of at once.

But Stannis had decreed that she and Shireen were to depart on the morrow, so it had to be done. 

Sansa was sure they would end up forgetting something important.

_Don’t think about that, now._

Lord Davos took Stannis’s place on the Iron Throne that day to hear petitioners, but Sansa was not present to observe. She heard of it later. 

Rumours flew fast and loose among the courtiers, and by supper everyone seemed to know a wedding had taken place. Every face Sansa passed on her way hither and thither to complete her numerous tasks gave her wide-eyed, searching looks, and Sansa did her best to smile placidly in return, not certain what - if anything - she should give away.

Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa had all been told directly however, and did not have to rely on rumours. They were to go with Sansa and Shireen to Tarth, and were helping the princess accomplish her own impossibly long list of tasks.

“I cannot believe Dragonstone has been taken,” Alynna had said, shaking her head, her eyes fearful.

“I cannot believe we were not invited to the wedding!” Carellen had countered, sounding scandalised.

“Nor I,” Ser Gerald had added in a disgruntled tone of voice that carried over from his post at the door.

Uncle Brynden found her at one point, pulling her aside to embrace her tightly. “My dear,” he murmured into her hair. “Would you have me go with you to Tarth?”

She pulled away, blinking at him. “Come with me?” His face looked perfectly serious. “But you are the master-at-arms.”

“Someone else can take that over,” Brynden said, waving a hand. “I only came to this pit of vipers for you, little Sansa. I promised Cat I’d keep you safe.”

Sansa was torn. A part of her wanted to accept his offer at once, but another part of her was still thinking of the young man who had sold her his pies. _Does he not need the protection more than I? Don’t they all?_

“I will be safe, Uncle,” she whispered. “I would rather have you look after Stannis. Help him defend the city.”

“You are certain?” He searched her eyes.

She nodded firmly, though her heart ached with loss. “Ser Gerald will keep me safe.”

“He better had,” Brynden said with a growl in his voice, though his eyes had grown moist.

Now, however, it was finally time to retire. It had been odd to prepare for bed in the king’s own chambers, but they were not so very different from her own. They were larger - with twin hearths at either end, and the bed boasted a very elaborate canopy that Sansa took an immediate liking to - but it was still just a room. Her maid had brushed her hair until it shone, and she donned a nightgown made of the softest silk, dove grey, and so fine it was almost transparent. It was beautiful, but when she considered that Stannis would likely be fully dressed when he arrived, she could not help but wish it covered her better.

Would it have been easier if they’d had a bedding ceremony? After all, the point of the ceremony was to remove the awkwardness of having to undress in front of each other. They would have been equally exposed. She blushed at the vivid image of being thrust into the king’s arms, the both of them fully naked. What would his skin feel like against hers? Warm perhaps? A little rougher than her own? A bit like the sensation of his face against her neck, but all over instead?

It was not the first time she’d imagined it.

She pressed her thighs together where she sat on the bed, unable to keep still.

What would his weight feel like on top of her, bearing down on her? What would _the act_ itself feel like? She knew he’d be required to… to… push inside her. Her breathing quickened and she was hot all over. And yet the twin fires had not been stoked since she had first arrived.

“It might hurt,” Jeyne had said that evening after dragging Sansa aside for ‘an important conversation’. “Marya told me that it almost always does. But she also said that it hurts a lot less if you both relax and take it slowly.”

Sansa had been too embarrassed to ask the questions that had occurred to her. ( _How do we take it slowly? How is it possible to relax?_ ) But Jeyne hadn’t stopped talking.

“It can be wonderful,” she had whispered, smiling a little dreamily. “You just have to make sure he knows when he does something you like.”

“How do I make sure of that?”

“Just tell him,” Jeyne had said with a shrug. “He’ll like hearing about it.”

Jeyne had then passed on some more of Marya’s advice, which had mostly consisted of tricks to conceive. Sansa wasn’t convinced tilting her hips in certain ways or drinking mint tea would do much of anything, and she certainly hoped she would never have to find the particular statue Jeyne had described to rub its private parts for luck. The bird’s nest soup Jeyne had spoken of did not sound very appetising, either. But Marya _had_ given birth to seven healthy sons, so perhaps there was some truth to these things...

The door opened, startling Sansa from her thoughts.

Stannis stood before her; fully dressed, and a pained, tired expression etched into his features. Her worries of being exposed in her nightgown left her, and all she could do was go to him, wishing more than anything to comfort him in any way she could.

“Has your day been very trying?” she asked, reaching out to touch his cheek.

His eyes swept over her as he opened his mouth, presumably to respond to her question. But he said nothing. All he did was stare. His expression changed subtly, but noticeably. He still looked pained, but it was a different sort of pain. It took her a moment, but soon she recognised it as the exact same expression he often wore when he stopped kissing her. He swallowed, and nodded.

“My day has been rather long, too,” she said. She was becoming very aware of her indecent nightgown again. She looked at the floor, unable to meet his overwhelming gaze any longer.

“Are you... certain you are ready?” He was close enough that she could hear his throat working. “If you are tired -”

She looked up, a flare of indignant anger shooting hotly through her. “We are married,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I would have you. Now.”

He stared at her.

Blushing, the flare of anger vanishing, she bit her lip. “Please.”

He lifted a hand to card his fingers through her loose hair, and then cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “By the gods,” he said, the words falling from his lips in a rush, as if he had tried to contain them but failed. “You are beautiful.”

The warm rush of pleasure his words inspired took her by surprise. She had received more charming compliments, after all. _But they did not come from him._ She straightened her back and gazed up at him. “And you are handsome,” she whispered, unable to understand that she had ever thought him plain.

There was a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, and a frown tugged at his lips.

“I’m sure more people than I would see it if you smiled once in a while,” she added, giving him a small smile of her own.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and the disbelief in his eyes made way for a glimmer of amusement. His thumb went to her mouth, tracing her smile as if to map an unfamiliar course. His pupils blew out. Pressing his thumb down lightly on her bottom lip, his gaze went from her lips to her eyes. “May I kiss you?” His voice was hoarse. As if he’d spent the last few hours shouting, and now there was no strength left for normal speech.

“Yes.”

The word hadn’t fully left her mouth when he descended on her, kissing her even more desperately than he had that morning, turning his head so quickly to change the angle of their kiss that their teeth clashed, and then licking her tongue and sucking on it as if he wanted to eat her alive. His bristly close-cropped beard scratched roughly over her skin and her lips, and his fingers slipped into her hair, his nails sending shivers down her spine when they scraped her scalp.

At first she was almost too overwhelmed to do anything, but soon she was responding just as eagerly, wrapping her arms around him and pressing herself close, not even trying to stifle the needful moans that pushed their way out of her, originating deep inside her breast.

Though her eyes were closed so that she might focus entirely on the sensations of this long awaited moment, she could tell that Stannis was moving them toward the bed, undressing himself hastily as they stumbled along. She could hear fabric dropping to the floor, and louder thumps when his boots followed. But she did not pay it much heed. How could she? Stannis was breathing hard against her neck when he was not planting wet, heated kisses on her lips or her throat, and his hands were _everywhere._ When he was no tearing at his own clothes he was clutching her waist, her arms, her hips… or running his hands through her hair.

She opened her eyes when the backs of her thighs hit the bed and she lost her balance. She ended up sitting on the edge, staring up at Stannis and blushing at the sight of him. Her quick glimpses in that small room where he was meant to wash the sweat of the training field off himself had not afforded her this opportunity to _look._

Broad shoulders. Pale skin, but not unmarred by scars. Collar bones that looked almost sharp. Long arms, wiry with muscles that moved in fascinating ways as he struggled with the knots at the front of his breeches. Dark hair - dry this time, and not plastered to him - that made her fingers itch with curiosity and drew her eyes towards the place where his fingers were still busy with troublesome fastenings.

And his eyes.

Her breath caught.

His eyes were blazing like they never had before.

“Lie down,” he said. His voice was still hoarse, and though he didn’t say please, it still sounded more like a request than a command.

As she moved to obey him, eyes closed once more, she heard more fabric slither to the floor.

Her cheeks burned as she considered what that meant. _Naked. He must be naked._ She squeezed her eyes firmly shut, though a surprisingly strong urge to open them gripped her. Her heart was hammering.

Her first thought, when he half covered her with his body, was how hot his skin felt. After that, she had the fleeting thought that he would crush her with his full weight if this was only part of it. But when he began to kiss her again, all coherent thought fled her mind.

She gasped when a large hand landed on her breast for the first time, kneading the flesh a little roughly and searching out a nipple through the sheer fabric that still covered her. He groaned loudly into her mouth when her nipple tightened in response to his touch, and she made another surprised sound when a hot, liquid sensation shot from her breast and… down.

He jerked his hips, pressing himself firmly against her thigh, and she became aware of a hard rod of flesh that burned even hotter than the rest of him, and a coarse nest of hair a little south of it.

“Let me,” he said quickly, between laboured breaths, his hand having wandered down beneath the hem of her nightgown. His fingers were trying to push their way between her thighs, and it was clear that he meant to touch her woman’s place.

She shivered, not sure whether from nerves or excitement, and parted her thighs for him.

A burst of hot air dampened her throat when Stannis exhaled loudly against her skin, his fingers immediately taking advantage of the freedom she had allowed, poking and prodding in a way that was both terrifyingly intrusive and maddeningly thrilling. For years she had been told, and told again, that no one must touch her there. For her maiden’s gift was precious, and must be conserved for her husband.

 _He is my husband,_ she reminded herself, fighting the urge to clamp her thighs shut.

After a moment, the prodding became less uncomfortable. But Sansa was mortified to find that his fingers were slipping around in something wet, and he seemed to be purposefully spreading the sticky wetness all over the place. She tried to keep quiet and still, staring up at the canopy, and hoped that everything was as it should be.

Then, without warning, Stannis pushed a finger _inside._ He did it slowly, but Sansa still gasped. She hadn’t expected him to do that and it felt very odd.

He stopped moving. “Does it hurt?”

She opened her eyes to find him frowning at her. Strangely, it was not a frown of irritation. His eyes looked very dark in the firelight.

“Um,” she blinked and licked her lips, trying to think. “No,” she decided, shifting her hips slightly. She bit back the questions on the tip of her tongue.

But something in her eyes must have betrayed her confusion. “I’m doing that to prepare you.” He clenched his jaw. “It should not hurt yet.”

 _Yet._ She took a deep breath, nodded, and closed her eyes. Jeyne had said something about preparation. And now that she thought back, she was sure Jeyne had mentioned a natural slickness easing her husband’s way. _Just breathe._

He started to move his finger in and out of her, sometimes twisting it around. After a moment, he started kissing her neck again, which was so lovely that she sighed and could not help but relax despite everything. She let the gap between her thighs widen, and gave into her body’s urge to move in time with his hand, rocking her hips up to meet his finger as it pushed into her. As soon as she did it, his hips spasmed again, and she was reminded of his manhood where it was still pressed hotly against her. Her heart shot up to her throat as she realised she was doing nothing to prepare him in turn, and hurriedly squirmed to make room for her hand, grasping his manhood as boldly as she dared.

He went still and groaned, the sound a little muffled against her neck.

It was hot and heavy and somehow more _alive_ than any other limb she had encountered, though the skin seemed a little clammy. _Maybe that’s just my hand._ She squeezed gently, listening for his reaction.

He hissed, and his hips twitched.

“How should I touch you?” she whispered shyly. “To prepare you?” 

Another groan, and a muffled swear word. He kissed her neck. “I am more than prepared, Sansa,” he then said, his voice deep, his breathing uneven. Blushing, she made to retract her hand. Stannis trapped it, however, pinning it to her own thigh. “But you may touch me as you like,” he went on, a breath of hot air following his words. He still had a finger inside of her, but he was no longer moving his hand with any sort of purpose. He seemed completely distracted.

She swallowed, her heart pounding. She gave him another gentle squeeze, startled to find that it seemed to _jump._ “Like this?”

He shuddered and pressed himself more firmly into her hand, another hot gust of air hitting her neck. And then his hand was moving again, shaky but determined. “I must prepare you,” he muttered, kissing her throat and her lips, pausing to draw in great gulps of air.

She kept her hand still, understanding that he needed to concentrate.

Another finger joined the first, stretching her almost to the point of pain. But there was more of the wet, which really did seem to help, and he was still spreading his kisses, pressing himself rhythmically into her hand in time with the movement of his fingers inside of her.

A not-quite-itchy, impatient, _familiar_ sort of feeling was building inside her, and she wanted to squirm and try to make him touch that part of her that lit up like a starry sky when she had straddled his lap that one time. Little whimpers kept escaping her, and her thighs were quivering.

He kissed her deeply, smothering the yelp she made when he pushed a third finger inside of her. It burned. Somehow in a good way and in a bad way both at once. She couldn’t stop herself from squirming anymore, and she squeezed his manhood again, a little less gently than before.

“Fu- _ungh_ -”

His breathing was loud and laboured, and his hand was moving too quickly, thrusting his fingers in and out of her at a frantic uneven pace. She opened her mouth to tell him, to ask him to slow down, but before she could get the words out, he had withdrawn. He sat up next to her and pulled her into a sitting position too, pulling her nightgown off her with one swift tug. She lifted her arms automatically to allow it, blushing furiously as his eyes went to her exposed breasts.

Stannis threw her nightgown to the side and reached for her breasts with both hands, his expression rapt. Soon he was kneading them and rubbing his thumbs over her nipple until they both hardened. Embarrassment and pleasure twisted her insides, and she started to squirm all over again.

Too quickly for her to even know how it had happened, they were lying down again. This time he was settling his manhood between her thighs, holding himself above her on his elbows.

“Keep your knees apart,” he instructed, his nostrils flaring as he reached down, holding himself up with only one arm, and adjusted himself until she could feel the blunt, slippery tip of his manhood prodding at her equally slippery entrance.

She tensed up and squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to breathe.

He groaned as he pushed an inch inside, forcing her to let all the air out of her lungs in response. The stretch was nothing like the stretch of his fingers. Even when he’d used three. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she kept her lids shut and refused to let them escape.

What had Jeyne said? _Relax._ She had to relax. She drew in a shuddering breath and let it out slowly, trying her best to unclench her muscles.

“Sansa,” Stannis said in a strangled voice, groaning loudly as he pushed deeper inside of her.

She couldn’t say anything in return. All she could do was breathe as she fought the urge to tense up again. To push him off. It was an overload of sensation, having him on top of her like this. It was too much at once. Smothered. Invaded. Overpowered.

 _Relax. Relax. Relax._ The word filled her mind and she made herself open up. Forced her muscles to stay unclenched. _He is welcome. He is my husband. And he loves me._

With a movement that was too quick for her to register it, Stannis pulled back, almost all the way out, and then thrust forward, sinking his manhood to the hilt into her with his loudest groan yet. It burned worse than anything he’d done thus far, and Sansa couldn’t suppress a dry sob.

“The worst is over,” he said, his voice still strange and strangled. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her, remorse in his eyes, and strain in every muscle she could see. He kissed her brow, and then looked at her intently once again.

She swallowed and gave a small nod, sensing that he was waiting for her signal.

He kissed her lips then, fiercely, but not for very long. As soon as their lips parted he began to move, pulling halfway out of her and then sinking back in. Gasping for every breath and exhaling shakily, he did this again and again, slowly, gently, until Sansa found - to her surprise - that it stopped burning so very much. In fact, the steady pace of it, the warmth of his body and the closeness that she’d thought to be smothering just moments before, began to feel comforting.

Recalling his instructions to keep her knees parted, she attempted to raise and part them further, and then, because it seemed the natural thing to do, she crossed her ankles where they met on the other side of his body, creating an odd sort of embrace.

Stannis made an animalistic sound; a deep sort of growl, and something within her - where they were so intimately connected - clenched up pleasurably. He started to thrust his hips faster, and for some reason he was sliding smoothly now, as if the fit had somehow changed.

Or maybe it was just that everything seemed to be getting all wet again? They were both perspiring, and every time he moved she could _hear_ the wetness.

Jeyne had said there might be blood, but she had not warned her it would be this messy.

But Sansa could not think about Jeyne or much of anything, now. Stannis sped up even more, grunting with the effort of every thrust, and the inclination to squirm against him was becoming overwhelming again. Something very hot was building, pleasure and pain combining... it was so good, but so _frustrating._

“Stannis,” she heard herself say, “please…”

He sucked in a breath as if he’d been struck and bore down on her with nearly his full weight, his hips spasming with no rhythm at all, her name on his lips like a prayer. Soon he stopped moving.

She was not sure what she had been begging him to do, but did not think that was it. It was not unpleasant, however, this prolonged embrace. Still, it was a relief when he rolled off, for he was rather heavy, and breathing was easier without his weight pressing down on her. But as soon as she’d had a few nice, deep breaths, the soreness between her legs screamed at her. She was sore and _wet._ Even more wet than before. There was a distinct sensation of something leaking from her, though not like she was making water or having her monthly courses.

Was this normal? She turned her head towards Stannis, wondering whether to ask him, but he was already rolling out of bed.

Blushing, she observed him cross over to a basin of water. She tried to keep from staring at his buttocks as he walked. Shadows played over his shoulder blades, and she could see the outline of his spine. She counted two scars that she could see from a distance. A jagged one up near his shoulder, and a thin, straight one near his waist. His thighs were very long, and the muscles of his calves jumped and bunched with each step.

She closed her eyes when he turned around to come back to bed, carrying a cloth he had dipped in the basin. Her face was burning hotter than ever, the short glimpse she’d had of his naked manhood imprinting itself on her memory. How odd that it looked so harmless in its nest of black, curly hair, when it had felt so much bigger when she’d touched it. _When it was inside me._

“Here,” he said, once he’d rejoined her in bed. She opened her eyes and saw that he was offering her the cloth he’d fetched. “You bled,” he added awkwardly, when all she did was stare at him.

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks still flaming. She accepted the cloth but felt too shy to start cleaning between her legs with him watching. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

After time had stretched on for several moments, Stannis made an impatient noise and took the cloth from her hand. He prodded her thighs apart and began to mop up the wet with efficient, gentle movements. “There is always some mess,” he stated, sounding resigned to it. “But it will usually be less than this.” He threw the cloth on the floor when he had finished and pulled the covers over them both. “We should sleep.”

Carefully, she turned to lie on her side, facing him. She inched closer, holding her breath. Then closer again. Thankfully, he seemed to understand what she was trying to do, and used a strong arm to pull her close, allowing her to use his chest for a pillow.

“I hope -” He cut himself off, falling silent.

“What?” she raised her head up to look at him.

“Are you hurt?” His body was very still and tense, his expression serious.

She considered the question. It had certainly not been pleasant all the way through. But she did not think it had been more painful than she had been prepared for it to be. And she had liked many parts of it. Even now, with the soreness lingering, there was also a deep warmth in her loins that she thought was very pleasant. “It did not hurt very much,” she said, shaking her head. “Did it hurt for you?”

He huffed out a startled breath. “No.”

Feeling foolish, she lowered her head to rest on his chest again.

“It should not hurt you again, after this,” he said, pulling her a little closer. She pressed herself to him eagerly, pleased beyond words that he wished to embrace her so tightly. “Though I expect I won’t have much time to demonstrate it.”

“We have tomorrow,” she said, her voice sleepy. Her eyelids felt very heavy, suddenly. “And all the years to come once the war is finished.” She yawned.

He squeezed her again, but said nothing.

At least, nothing she heard through the haze of sleep.


	21. The Small Council

Stannis’s brow was a little furrowed even as he slept, and Sansa was tempted to smooth it out with the tip of a finger. The fire had gone out in both hearths, but weak morning light filtered through the windows where the curtains had not been drawn all the way shut, painting everything in shades of grey. The sun was probably not yet up, but soon it would start its slow crawl, peeking up over the horizon only to slump back into the shadows.

A strange dream had woken her when it had still been dark, and she had not been able to fall back to sleep. The chance to watch Stannis while he slept had seemed too good to pass up, and she smiled to herself as she imagined his surprise to find her awake before him.

She tried to recall the details of the dream that had woken her as she waited for him to open his eyes, but the more she tried to hold onto them, the more they slipped away. _Mountains…_ she thought, closing her eyes to concentrate. _And a castle high up in the rocky slopes. A castle made of snow._

“You’re awake.”

Scolding herself for not paying attention, Sansa focused on Stannis again. His eyes were open, and his voice only a little raspy. He seemed as alert as if it were the middle of the day.

“So are you,” she said softly. “Husband.” 

His lips parted and he drew in a breath. “Wife,” he said in return, watching her closely. They were both lying on their sides, facing one another without touching.

She smiled.

Without another word, they both inched closer, finding a kiss. Stannis buried the hand that was not trapped beneath him in her hair, and steered her head so that he might deepen the kiss more easily. She welcomed him with all her heart, doing her best to press the full length of her body to his. They had slept naked, and the heat of his skin was everywhere. As their kiss progressed, his tongue exploring every inch of her mouth in ways that made her moan and writhe, she began to feel his manhood coming to life. Growing.

With her own free hand she reached below their covers and grasped it.

Stannis groaned, breaking their kiss. He did not tell her to stop or push her hand away, however.

“It grows,” she whispered, curious about its workings. She stroked it carefully, feeling the ridges under the smooth skin, marvelling at the way it seemed to twitch with a life of its own. Jeyne had not gone into very much detail about how this part of a man would look and feel, and certainly not how it _worked._ “Do you will it to grow?”

“It has a will of its own,” Stannis said, a note of irritation in his voice. “But it can be controlled. Though many men do not care to try.”

“It gets so large,” she murmured, wrapping her hand around it at the base and then feeling her way to the tip, trying to get a sense of the length. It would be better if she could look at it, but she did not dare ask. She glanced at his face, curious to see his reaction to her words. She was not completely ignorant. She knew men were preoccupied with the size of their manhoods. She had overheard her brother and Theon discussing such things when they thought no one could hear them.

Stannis cleared his throat but said nothing, but a telling flush was creeping up his neck to his face.

She internalised a smile. “Does it feel odd?” she wondered, touching the bulbous tip now. She was surprised to find a drop of fluid. “I mean, when it changes?” she added, tentatively rubbing the fluid between her fingers. It was sticky.

“I - ah…” He cleared his throat again, and Sansa felt his manhood move more forcefully, almost jumping out of her hand.

She tightened her grip a little. “Are you making it do that?” 

“No.” His breathing was strained.

The urge to uncover him and take a proper look was becoming almost overwhelming. But she knew she could never do that. She was already drawing on all her courage to do as much as _this._

“I should go,” he said, though he had closed his eyes and was not making any attempt to move away from her. “There’s much to be done…”

“Are you certain?” She rubbed her thighs together experimentally. She was not so very sore. And touching him this way was bringing back that hot, aching feeling from the previous night. She wanted to know where it led. “We have such a short amount of time before I must leave...” She swiped her thumb over the tip of his manhood, spreading the sticky fluid.

He did not answer her. Instead, he rolled himself on top of her, kissing her deeply again. Due to his sudden movement she was forced to relinquish his manhood, but she did not mind. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, enjoying his attentions thoroughly.

Soon, his hand had found its way between her thighs. He stroked her as he had done the night before, his fingers slipping in the wet. Somewhat shyly, she moved her hips in time with his hand, chasing his fingers and trying to get him to touch her where it felt truly wonderful. She gasped every time he grazed the right spot, and hoped he would understand; that he would touch it more. But to her frustration he moved his fingers towards her opening instead, pushing two of them inside. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering. It did not feel painful, but she was sore, and she wanted more of the pleasure.

 _’You just have to make sure he knows when he does something you like,’_ Jeyne’s voice said in her memory. _I’m trying,_ Sansa thought, furrowing her brow.

“What is it?” Stannis asked, his hand stilling. “Does it hurt?”

 _’Just tell him,’_ Jeyne’s voice said.

“No, but I - I liked what you were doing before,” she said. She held her breath as she waited for his response.

“Before?” He raised himself up on one elbow to look at her, withdrawing his fingers from inside her.

“Yes,” she said. “The touching…”

“Here?” He pushed a single finger back inside of her. She whimpered and squirmed.

Face burning, she reached down to guide his hand. “Here, I think,” she said, closing her eyes and doing her best to concentrate. It was difficult to find the right place.

Stannis made an impatient noise, but he did not move his hand back to her opening when she released it. He rubbed with the tips of his fingers, slipping in the wet, and Sansa’s hips almost bucked off the bed.

“Yes! Please, please, please,” she begged, wishing that he would _never_ stop. “Just there, please…”

He groaned and pressed his manhood to her thigh as he continued to rub at her with his fingers, and she lost all control of herself, bucking her hips again and again to meet his touches, trying to chase the elusive, hot, achy feeling that was building within her. It was just like in his solar that one time, except the sensations had all been muffled then. As if she’d been listening to a song with her hands over her ears. Now it was as if she could hear every delicious note.

“It feels so lovely, please...” She moaned a lot more loudly than she intended. All she wanted now was for him to press his palm firmly against her so that she might continue to rub up against it, but she had no idea how to request such a thing. In the end she simply grabbed his wrist and held fast, giving into her body’s insistent need to go faster, faster, _faster._ She let out a short, high-pitched scream when the sensation she had been chasing finally washed over her, starting at her centre and flooding her with heat and pleasure that had her muscles twitching uncontrollably until they seemed to just… give up.

There were stars on the insides of her eyelids.

“Mmm,” she hummed, letting her eyes flutter open. Stannis was staring at her, his face flushed a dull red. Her toes curled. “I liked that very much.”

His eyes darkened and his lips parted, and then he was moving to mount her. She spread her thighs eagerly, curious to know what the stretch of his manhood would be like now that she felt so very, very good.

The sensation when he pushed into her, sucking in a loud breath and then groaning into her ear, was utterly different. There was a hint of soreness, but she barely noticed it. She felt deliciously full and complete, and finally as if some deep itch was being scratched in the most satisfying of ways.

Remembering Jeyne’s advice, she drew in a shuddering breath and moaned, “that feels wonderful, Stannis…” He made a choked noise, and his hips twitched powerfully, drawing another moan from her.

He gave a more determined thrust, and she didn’t have to think about encouraging him anymore. The noises came out of her whether she decided to make them or not.

“Like this?” he asked with a grunt, falling into a quick, shallow rhythm.

“Mmm,” she shifted to angle her hips more invitingly. “More please…”

He groaned and grabbed her hips, driving himself deeper and harder now.

And then it was just a matter of holding onto whatever she could get her hands on. A feather pillow. A soft fur throw. Bed linen. _Stannis._ Her hands slid easily up and down his back. After enjoying the feel of his back muscles shifting with his movements, she had the brief impulse to let her hands venture _lower._ Her thoughts flashed to the image of him walking across the room last night, his back and his buttocks and his thighs exposed, the muscles of his calves bunching with every step... Just the thought made her mouth fall open and her insides clench up in that pleasurable, mysterious way. 

Stannis’s movements faltered. “Sansa…” His voice was strangled, his tone almost pleading.

“Did you feel that?” she asked, overwhelmed by curiosity. She tried to do it again, this time on purpose. 

_Oh._

“Yes,” he panted, already thrusting again, more wildly now.

“Does it - _oh_ \- feel good?” She tried it again.

“ _Ungh_ …” He released her hips and shifted forward, grabbing the headboard of the great bed instead. Instinctively she angled her hips to match him, gasping as he resumed his frantic movements.

It was almost more than she could bear, but judging by the first time they had done this, she did not think he would last much longer. And there was something thrilling about all this, something that was making her blood sing.

And then, after speeding up to a pace that had the wooden bed frame creaking in protest, he suddenly gasped, stopped deep within her, and shuddered. He gave two more firm thrusts, and then collapsed on top of her, barely supporting himself on one elbow to keep from crushing her.

For a minute, all they did was catch their breaths. Stannis rolled off with a quiet groan, and Sansa stifled a noise at the sensation of his manhood leaving her body. Would that always feel so strange? The rest of her did not feel strange, however. She felt relaxed - though her limbs were oddly heavy - and quite sated. The urge to squirm was a far-off memory, and all she wanted was to be held.

Once she had wiggled herself into an embrace, her head pillowed on his chest, she hummed out a happy, satisfied sound. _Now_ she understood all those secret smiles and veiled references Jeyne had been making since her wedding to Devan.

“You’re... pleased.” Stannis’s statement came out sounding almost like a question, but not quite.

“Mm.” She hummed again, wiggling closer. She should probably get the mess that was seeping out of her cleaned up, but she was much too comfortable to deal with it right away. “It was lovely,” she added when Stannis remained tense, as if waiting for some judgment. “I liked it very much.”

“There was no… discomfort?”

“No, you prepared me so well. Thank you.” She raised her head to kiss his cheek. Just thinking about the sensations she had experienced when he had been preparing her sent heat racing through her all over again. She wiggled some more, wondering whether he had to leave right away. She wouldn’t mind doing it all again. Maybe she’d be able to convince him to spend even _more_ time preparing her. She liked the way his fingers felt - especially at the end when he’d held them flat against her, making a nice blunt surface for her to rub up against...

Stannis made a sound that might have been a groan of pleasure or of pain, and Sansa realised that the peck on the cheek she had given him had led to a bout of distracted kissing. She seemed to be nuzzling his neck, worrying at it with her lips and teeth. And her hand must have wandered, because she was touching his manhood again. It was soft, however, so she ended up exploring the nest of hair and the odd sack it hid. _Testicles,_ she thought to herself. His body was so _different._ But did he enjoy her touch as much as she enjoyed his?

“Sansa, what -” he paused to hiss out a breath when she scratched lightly at him, marvelling at the unfamiliar textures she was discovering. “You can hardly mean for us to - _ah..._ ”

She grinned against his neck, amused to find him unable to finish his sentences. He was usually so composed. Was it just because of the way she was touching him? A thrill of power shot up her spine at the thought.

“You could touch me again,” she suggested playfully, “if you wanted…”

There was another groan that she was not sure how to interpret. “Am I to understand you have no - _ah_ \- intention of letting me get up?”

This time she did more than grin. She giggled helplessly at the way he was clearly trying to sound stern. “No, I’m very interested in getting you up.” Boldly - but hopefully not _too_ boldly - she spread her thighs.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, inhaling sharply. His hand had already answered her invitation, and his fingers were probing at her folds purposefully, searching out the spot she’d guided him to earlier.

“ _Oh!_ ” She was sensitive, but in a very wonderful way. It was tempting to let go of his manhood and simply enjoy his touch, but she kept stroking him distractedly, wanting to know whether she could coax it to grow long and hard again.

He continued to mutter under his breath as he touched her. She didn’t catch everything, but she did hear him say something about inappropriate, young brides, and being too old for this.

“You chose me,” she half moaned, recalling how Stannis had practically _demanded_ her father give her to him. “How can I be inappropriate?”

“Had you been older, it would have been an easier choice,” he said, shifting their positions so that she was no longer able to reach to fondle him as he worked. She frowned for a moment, but her protests died on her lips. His hand was already speeding up, his fingers sliding easily in the wet and the mess he’d left before. Sansa tried not to think about the state the bed sheets would be in and how the servants would gossip.

“I don’t think you’re old.” Gods, his fingers felt so good… “I love you,” she breathed.

He kissed her fervently as soon as she spoke, almost as if he wanted to taste the words as they left her mouth. His tongue licked at hers for a long time before he withdrew, sucking on her lips before he fully relinquished her. His manhood was hardening where it was pressed hotly against her, and she started to move her hips in time with his hand, enjoying herself more and more.

“I don’t know why I’m concerning myself with dragons,” he said as he rose to mount her again. “ _You’re_ more likely to be the death of me.” 

He groaned loudly as he sank into her, and she clutched desperately at his back, shoulders, and his arms, wanting to touch him wherever she could reach.

Though his hand had not brought her to that blissful state she had reached earlier, something about the way his lower abdomen was now scraping against her as he moved was setting her on fire, and it felt very good to have him filling her up inside.

It took a lot longer for his thrusts to start faltering this time around. Sansa had time to appreciate everything that was happening, and she was able to really concentrate on the sensations his movements elicited - outside and in. She was even able to experiment more with clenching those mysterious inner muscles she had barely ever thought about before today.

Finally, when Stannis shifted their position in a completely new way - lifting her thigh and bracing it against his chest to gain more leverage - it was as if something snapped into place inside of her. Heat flashed through her and her muscles tensed up, and she was letting out unladylike, involuntary cries. It was too much and just barely enough both at once.

By the time they were lying side by side, sweaty and still recovering from their exertions, Sansa was certain she wanted to spend every spare minute she had left with Stannis doing just _that._

“Can we stay in here all day?” she asked with a yawn, stretching luxuriously.

He blew out a startled breath. “You’re not serious.”

She sighed. “I know it’s not possible.” She rolled onto her side and propped her head up on one elbow so that she could look at his face. “But I’d still like to.”

He blinked at her and shook his head slightly, almost if he was trying to clear his vision. “You’d like to stay in here. With me. All day.”

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out to tease him, “only if we could stay in bed the whole time. With none of our clothes on.”

His mouth turned into a flat, thin line. “You do intend to kill me,” he muttered. More loudly he said, “I expect you’d find yourself bored before long.” His voice was dry and deliberately careless, but Sansa had been studying him for _months._ She had seen the flash of vulnerability that had accompanied his words.

She kissed his lips quickly. “Not at all. There is so much to explore,” she said, blushing though her words were bold. “I have yet to kiss every part of you, and you have yet to kiss every part of me.” She moved to lie half on top of him, folding her arms on his chest and resting her chin on them.

He looked startled for a moment before raising a brow. “Every part?”

Was his skin flushed because of their earlier exertions, or was it due to their current conversation? She nodded at him. “Every part.” She drew in a steadying breath. “And we have yet to try some different, um, variations when we...” Jeyne had definitely said that there were different _positions._ And some were supposed to be better for making boys than others. “I have heard it told that to make a son, it can be beneficial to -”

“I understand,” Stannis said quickly, cutting her off. His face was definitely a deeper shade of red. “Tall tales and nonsense. Ask any maester and he will tell you that there is no… variation that is better than another for conceiving children.”

Sansa hummed, her mind having wandered a little. “I liked the _variation_ where you pulled my leg up.” She closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. She could still feel the residual heat of it all. “Surely there’s no harm in trying different ones?”

He was staring at her again, his lips slightly parted and his eyes dark. But then he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, clenching his jaw shut. When he opened his eyes again, there was a trace of hardness in them that she hadn’t seen in weeks. “No harm perhaps, but no time. War is coming.”

She sighed deeply. “I know.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “I suppose we shall have to try all of the variations very quickly, then.”

First, the hardness disappeared from his gaze. Then, he let out a short, raspy laugh, and squeezed her tightly to him, his chest shaking.

Warmth and wonder flooded her chest as she embraced him back, smiling widely. 

_I made him laugh._

***

“What is it, Ser Gerald?” Sansa asked, barely glancing up from the trunk she was packing with Ella. _Can it not wait?_ She had a thousand things to do before she was meant to leave. She did not regret a minute of the time she’d spent lingering in bed with Stannis, but it had thrown the day’s schedule off considerably.

“I’m to escort you to the small council chambers, my queen,” Ser Gerald said. “His Grace wishes you to sit in on a meeting before we leave for Tarth.”

Sansa’s stomach still swooped a little every time she heard her new address, but she hoped it did not show on her face. _Yesterday morning I had not the faintest notion that I would be queen today._ It was odd how much and yet how little it had changed. “A small council meeting?” 

“Yes.”

Sansa looked from Ser Gerald to Ella as she considered the matter. Ella was still packing diligently with an expression of immense concentration on her young face, treating Sansa’s belongings with care and attention. “Very well,” she said, smoothing down her skirts. “Ella, please have one of the maids join you in here to assist you. I don’t know how long this meeting will take.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Ser Gerald walked ahead of Sansa at first, leading the way, but soon fell into step beside her as he so often did. “Word is that His Grace didn’t show up on the training field at all this morning,” he said, giving her a sidelong glance and smirking.

Sansa stared straight ahead and did her best not to blush. “I’m sure he had more important things to do.”

He chuckled and muttered something under his breath. It sounded as if he’d said, “like you,” but Sansa wasn’t certain. In a louder voice he said, “no doubt he had a late night, Your Grace.” His tone was highly suggestive.

Despite her efforts, her face warmed. “That’s none of your concern, ser.”

“Isn’t it?” He hummed lightly, clearly unconcerned. “To be honest, I’m surprised he let you leave his chambers at all.”

Sansa pressed her lips together tightly. She knew what Ser Gerald was implying, but did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how difficult it had been for both her and Stannis to leave his chambers and start going about their separate duties. “His Grace would never keep me anywhere against my will, ser.”

“It would have been against your will to stay?” he asked, chuckling again. “He must not have impressed you much, then.”

 _The nerve!_ “That’s not-” Sansa cut herself off and took a deep breath. “Please do not concern yourself with these things, ser.”

“Just tell me one thing, my queen,” Ser Gerald said, lowering his voice and bringing his face a little closer to hers. “Did he smile?”

Inside Sansa’s mind, she heard the voice of a singer. _And t’is told, that though he was old, the king smiled on his wedding night!_ “Why don’t you ask him?” she said snippily, turning her head to aim a glare at Ser Gerald. “If you dare.” 

Ser Gerald took a step back, holding his palms up in surrender with a wide grin. “Retract your claws, Your Grace. You know I jest.”

She raised a brow. “And here I was, thinking you were a knight, not a fool. My mistake.”

“You wound me,” Ser Gerald said, placing a hand over his heart. He was still smiling, however. “I’m beginning to think I should not go with you to Tarth; if you’re going to be this moody the whole time, I’m sure I’d rather take my chances with the dragons.”

Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Inside the small council chambers, Sansa found Stannis, and every member of the small council waiting for her, sitting around a large, polished table. The room was richly furnished, with beautiful carpets on the floor and tapestries from Essos on every wall. A brightly painted and intricately carved screen stood in one corner, and Sansa wished she had time to examine it more closely. The creatures that had been painted on it were like nothing she had ever seen.

She took a small step inside, and heard the door close behind her. A hush fell over the room, and Sansa took a deep breath. It was a great honour to be invited to a small council meeting, but though she was pleased to be included, she did not entirely understand why. She looked at Stannis for guidance, and found him already staring impatiently at her.

He rose up and gestured for her to take the seat next to him. “Queen Sansa is here to observe,” he said to the others. “We will be discussing matters that are relevant to her.” He helped her with her chair, before he sat down again. “Let us begin by hearing Lord Dale’s report.” His voice was brusque, and he did not so much as glance at her. He almost seemed a different man than the one she had last seen in his bedchamber; all steel and stone with no hint of the heart beneath. But Sansa understood. _Father is different too, when he is Lord Stark._

Dale caught her eye and he smiled at her, though he had dark half-moons under his eyes. “As you wish, Your Grace. Though I would like to start by congratulating you and Queen Sansa on your recent wedding.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, smiling at him in return. “I wish all of you could have been there.” Her eyes swept over the rest of the gathered men. Three of them - Davos, her uncle, and Ser Barristan - had been at her wedding, but nearly all of those who had not - namely Maester Gormon, Lord Varys, Lord Florent, and Ser Aron Santagar - looked faintly displeased. Sansa was not entirely certain they were all displeased for the same reasons however, and some of them were managing to disguise it better than others. Lord Andrew Estermont merely gave her a nod, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Yes, fine,” Stannis said. “The report, Dale.”

Dale’s expression became serious, and he launched into an account he had clearly given before. He had sailed away from King’s Landing on _Black Betha_ , intending to patrol the common shipping routes across the Narrow Sea, only to find Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet waiting for him. _Black Betha_ had been overcome and brought to Dragonstone, where Dale had seen three dragons soar through the sky, and a swarm of Dothraki screamers making camp. But Dale had disguised himself and escaped Greyjoy’s clutches. Knowing Dragonstone like the back of his own hand, he’d quickly found a small boat - hidden by Davos long ago - and made his escape in the dead of night. Sansa had to suppress several gasps as he told his tale, her heart in her throat. _He came so close to death._

“The twenty ships that were at anchor on Dragonstone are lost to us, and they’ve taken my men hostage,” Dale said, his eyes shadowed. “But I do not know whether there is any hope for their survival.”

 _There is always hope,_ Sansa thought, sending Dale an encouraging look.

“Twenty ships!” Lord Florent exclaimed, his tone dismayed.

Stannis shot him a quelling look. “It is a loss, but not as great a loss as it might have been.”

Sansa wondered why, but did not think it was her place to ask.

Dale nodded. With a glance at her he said, “after the Battle of the Blackwater, we’ve kept the bulk of the royal fleet here in King’s Landing rather than on Dragonstone.” 

“Indeed,” Stannis said, glancing from Sansa to Dale. “As for your men; if she means to strike a bargain with me, Daenerys Targaryen would be wise to keep them alive.” Stannis’s eyes were now fixed on a spot at the centre of the table. Sansa wondered briefly if he missed the painted table in the chamber where he had spent so much of his time when he had been Lord of Dragonstone. She had seen it once, and she remembered thinking it beautiful. Stannis looked at the master of whisperers now. “Lord Varys, report.”

“The situation in Dorne, Your Grace?” Lord Varys asked, eyeing Ser Aron Santagar. Ser Aron still looked displeased, but not more so than he had before.

“Yes.”

“I’ve had fresh news only this morning,” Varys said smoothly. “The minor outbreaks of greyscale I had mentioned before have become… less minor. Most parts of Dorne have been affected, and now a servant in Blackhaven has a hand of stone. I fear it will soon be spreading all throughout the stormlands.”

Sansa’s stomach squeezed in on itself, and for a moment she did not breathe.

“The stormlands?” Lord Andrew said, sounding as concerned as Sansa felt. “But the queen and the princess, Tarth -”

“Tarth is an island,” Stannis said, cutting Lord Andrew off. “Greyscale should not reach it.”

“Dragonstone is an island, too,” Measter Gormon said, raising a brow. “And yet the princess contracted greyscale there.”

Stannis clenched his jaw tightly shut. “If the Lord of Tarth is warned to be vigilant, such oversights could easily be prevented.”

Sansa could see that the subject pained him, and had to suppress the urge to reach for his hand.

“Why take the risk?” Uncle Brynden suddenly spoke up. “Why send them to Tarth at all?”

Everyone looked at him, and Stannis scowled. “It has been decided. A raven has been sent to the Lord of Tarth.”

“The ladies haven’t left yet,” Brynden said, shaking his head. “What’s the harm in discussing other options?”

“What options?”

“The Eyrie,” Brynden said. “They’d be as safe as falcons in their nests, there. And Lord Arryn would welcome his cousin the queen with open arms. Or Lannisport. The princess is betrothed to the Lord of Casterly Rock, is she not? I’m sure he’d be able to offer the most comfortable of accommodations.”

Sansa looked at Stannis. She had not had much time to think of the matter with the wedding and her long list of tasks to complete occupying her every waking moment, but now that her uncle had brought it up, she was curious.

“It is the middle of winter,” Stannis said. “The journey to the Eyrie would take too long, and be too perilous. As for Casterly Rock…” he paused, scowling more deeply. “My daughter may be betrothed to its lord, but you know Euron Greyjoy has claimed the Seastone Chair. His reavers grow more aggressive by the week. I would not send my wife or daughter anywhere near the Iron Islands.”

Sansa nodded to herself. Mother had told her and Arya what the journey to the Eyrie was like, and it had sounded frightening. _And it was not winter then._ As for Casterly Rock, she did not think Stannis was giving the full reason he did not want to send her and Shireen there, but wanting to keep them far away from the Iron Islands was reasonable enough. She looked at her uncle.

“You would rather send them to an island well within Victarion Greyjoy’s reach?” Brynden asked, his face stubborn.

Sansa looked back at Stannis. _That’s a fair point._

“My little birds tell me Daenerys Targaryen does not approve of reaving,” Varys said mildly.

“That may well change,” Brynden said. “And why not send them to Storm’s End, if you’re so set on the stormlands?”

“Too obvious,” Lord Andrew scoffed.

“Perhaps, but -”

Stannis struck the table with a fist, startling Sansa. “Ser Brynden,” he said, his voice edged with steel, “do not make the mistake of thinking you are the only man who cares for the queen’s safety. I have considered this matter carefully. I will not discuss it further.”

A tense silence filled the chamber. Uncle Brynden looked mutinous.

Sansa took several calming breaths, willing her heart to slow.

“Perhaps we should move on,” Davos said at length.

“Move on?” Lord Florent said, his tone flat. “It’s winter. There are monsters in the north, Greyjoy reavers in the west, dragons in the east, and greyscale in the south. What can we possibly move on to?” He threw his hands up.

“A famine,” Stannis said, his voice cold.

“The granaries are full, Your Grace,” Lord Florent said, sounding offended. “There’s no cause to fear a famine.”

Stannis ground his teeth for a moment, but did not respond to Lord Florent otherwise. He looked at Varys instead. “Complete your report, Lord Varys.”

Varys cleared his throat. “Jon Connington and his sellswords, the Golden Company, are currently residing in Sunspear, under Prince Doran’s protection.”

All eyes turned to Ser Aron Santagar.

He lounged in his chair, and seemed unbothered by the attention. “I know nothing of this,” he said in a bored tone of voice.

“I thought Jon Connington drank himself to death years ago,” Uncle Brynden said, shaking his head.

“Rumours he purposefully spread,” Varys said, pursing his lips. “I believe he wishes to see a Targaryen on the Iron Throne once more. And so does Prince Doran.”

Ser Aron shifted in his chair, but said nothing.

Stannis fixed Ser Aron with a piercing look. “I would have you write to Prince Doran,” he said. “By your own hand, and ask for the truth.”

“As my king wishes,” Ser Aron said, though his eyes flashed dangerously.

Sansa did not envy him his position. _If Prince Doran has truly sided with Daenerys Targaryen, Ser Aron will soon be more hostage than council member._

“Now,” Stannis said, his voice like a whip. 

Ser Aron rose from his chair unhurriedly, and walked from the council chambers with his head held high. 

When he was gone, Stannis turned to Maester Gormon. “I wish to read his letter before it is sent.”

“I will see to it, Your Grace.”

Stannis nodded. “Ser Barristan,” he then said, placing his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands for a moment. “Lord Dale.” He looked up at the two men he had addressed. “How many swords do we currently command? How many ships?”

Brynden scoffed. “I can answer that; not nearly enough!”

Stannis tensed up and cast her uncle an irritated glance. “Ser Barristan?”

Calmly, Ser Barristan began to account for the number of knights and men-at-arms that were currently at the Crown’s disposal. As he spoke, everyone at the table became silent and attentive. Sansa listened carefully, but could not help glancing frequently at Stannis. He looked so tense and tired, and the urge to touch him was growing too strong to resist. Had they been alone she would have wrapped her arms around his neck and embraced him, but she made do with placing her hand on his thigh beneath the table and giving him a consoling squeeze.

He sat up straight, taking his elbows off the table, turning to look at her for a moment.

Sansa’s face warmed, but kept her hand on his thigh, tracing idle patterns with the tips of her fingers as she listened to Ser Barristan. Only Davos seemed to notice anything. He glanced at them and suppressed a smile.

Dale spoke next, naming every warship of the royal fleet as if they were his children, and then going on to wonder out loud whether to count the new flagship that had almost been completed.

“The flagship may or may not come in useful before the end. But more swords and more ships are needed,” Stannis said when Dale finished. Uncle Brynden leaned back in his chair and muttered that he’d already said as much, and Stannis glared at him. “Queen Sansa has suggested applying to the riverlands and the Vale for aid. I would send ravens to the Reach and the westerlands, too. Maester Gormon, have letters drafted as soon as you may.”

“There are fresh armies in the Reach that are sure to answer your call, Your Grace,” Maester Gormon said, nodding. “But I would not count on the westerlands. The last war took its toll. As for ships; I expect much of the Redwyne fleet is occupied dealing with Euron’s reavers.”

“Just have the letter drafted, and quickly,” Stannis said impatiently. “I would have Ser Brynden and the queen add personal notes to the letters to Lord Tully and Lord Arryn before I sign them.”

“At once, my king,” Maester Gormon said, rising from his seat and leaving the chamber.

Uncle Brynden looked ready to argue some more, but Sansa caught his eye and did her best to send him a silent message. _Please do not make this needlessly difficult. We’re all on the same side._ Brynden closed his mouth and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden,” Stannis said, looking at each of the knights in turn. “The scorpions. Anything to report?”

“A number of men have been taught to use them,” Ser Barristan said. “Their aim has been improving steadily, and out of those that have become competent, at least a fifth are truly proficient.”

“Aye,” Brynden said, nodding. “Though we cannot say how many will be able to aim true with a fire breathing dragon flying right at them.”

Dale gave a grim chuckle. “The dragons will no doubt separate the men from the boys.”

Lord Andrew huffed out an amused breath at that, but said nothing.

“And they have been sent to the castles we discussed?” Stannis asked. “Along with men capable of using them?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said.

“Very well.” Stannis looked at Davos. “Is there anything else that requires urgent attention?”

“We received word from the Wall last night,” Davos said quietly, his face becoming still and sober. “They ask for more dragonglass.”

“Did we not send a ship full of obsidian to the Wall three months ago?”

“We did.” Davos sighed. “But they wish for more.”

“They must write to Daenerys Targaryen, then,” Stannis said, scowling. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that cannot wait,” Davos said.

“Any of you? Anything else to say?” Stannis looked at every man at the table in turn. No one spoke.

Sansa squeezed his thigh one last time and retracted her hand, gathering her courage with a deep breath. “I would say something,” she said, facing Stannis steadily when he turned to look at her. “With my king’s permission.”

A wary curiosity lit his gaze. “Speak.”

“I have come to care for the people of this city,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “Just as I care for all of you,” she looked at the different men one by one. Most of them looked intrigued. “Your lessons have taught me much, and I hope I will be able to continue learning from you when I return. My heart is torn by my need to leave. I would so very much have liked to stay to comfort and pray with every soul I have come to love here…” She looked down at her hands, needing a moment to collect herself. “I am no longer the child I was when I first came to this city with my head full of songs and dreams of true knights. I have come to appreciate how rare and precious a true knight is.” She looked at Ser Barristan, and her uncle, sending them small smiles. “My king is fortunate to have so many on his council. It is clear to me that the innocent people of this city - and the seven realms - are in good, noble hands.” She met each man’s eyes briefly. “I know you will not let them suffer needlessly.” She looked at Stannis last, her heart pounding.

Stannis stared back at her intently, his brow furrowed. The silence of a sept filled the council chamber.

“Hear, hear,” Uncle Brynden said, breaking the spell.

The other men murmured their agreement. Davos, Dale, Ser Barristan, and Lord Andrew were all looking at her fondly. Lord Florent was sneering, however, and Varys did not betray much.

“My king, are you certain you wish to send her away?” Varys said, the corners of his lips curling.

“Yes,” Stannis said, his voice forbidding. “If the Targaryen girl opts for an invasion, I would not have my queen or my heir in the line of fire. If she intends to besiege the city… “ He fell silent, clenching his jaw and his fists, his throat working.

Sansa’s stomach turned. _Rats and boot leather._

The mood in the council chamber darkened, and for a moment everyone sat very still.

“Well,” Varys said, breaking the silence, “let us hope Daenerys Targaryen is willing to negotiate.” He paused, his expression turning miffed. “Though I don’t know what you hope to offer her, Your Grace.”

“We shall see,” Stannis muttered. Under the table, he placed his hand over Sansa’s. Her heart jolted at the unexpected contact. She gave him a sidelong glance, but his face was still, and his eyes were focused on Varys. 

She squeezed his hand hesitantly, hoping it would not make Stannis retreat.

He squeezed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your support, your kudos, and especially your comments! I'm overwhelmed with how lovely you all are. ♥
> 
> Also, if you caught Stannis saying something oddly familiar, it might have been a line I borrowed from Commodore Norrington of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. (I love him a lot, and I recommend reading [snowbryneich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbryneich/pseuds/snowbryneich)'s Norribeth fics if you like him, too!)


	22. The Sapphire Isle

The sun was still up when the time came to say farewell. Sansa had eaten a rushed, late lunch after the small council meeting, barely sitting down for long enough to recognise what she was having. She wanted to leave while they still had the light, so they’d be able to make some headway before they’d be forced to stop for the night.

Not that she truly wanted to leave at all.

“I’m glad we are to go to Tarth,” Jeyne said, though her face was pale.

Stannis had promised to meet Sansa and Shireen in the yard inside the castle gates to see them off, and it did not seem real that it was already time to go. She and Jeyne were walking slowly from the Maidenvault, with Ser Gerald on their heels.

“Are you?” Sansa gave Jeyne a searching look.

Jeyne lifted her chin. “We will be safe there.”

“Do you really think so?” Sansa asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I cannot help but be afraid.”

“I am, too.” Jeyne linked arms with Sansa and squeezed gently. “I wish all this fighting could be done away with. But I’m sure King Stannis will be victorious.”

“Against dragons?” The terror that Sansa had been pushing aside since Stannis had first spoken of the creatures seemed to flood her now, and she clutched tightly at Jeyne.

“You know as well as I do that he is a very capable strategist,” Jeyne said firmly. “He defeated Lord Lannister, did he not?”

“I wish Father could come and help,” Sansa said, thinking of how they had worked together to bring Lord Lannister’s forces to heel. “He could bring back all the men Stannis sent north, and…”

“Don’t they have their hands full at the Wall?”

“Of course they do, I just wish…” Sansa took a deep breath. “It isn’t fair.”

“No,” Jeyne agreed, and for a moment they walked in silence. “But we can always hope that the Others will come and take the Targaryen upstart and her dragons.”

“ _Jeyne_ ,” Sansa scolded. But the prospect of the Others taking the would-be usurper was oddly cheering, so she did a bad job of suppressing a smile.

Jeyne giggled. “She could be Queen Beyond the Wall! Queen of Frozen Wastes! Queen of Grumkins and Snarks!”

Trying and mostly failing to hold back her own giggles, Sansa shushed Jeyne, glancing back at Ser Gerald. He made a silly face at her as if he were a fool in motley rather than a knight of the Kingsguard, and then grinned. Though he was not truly in motley, he _was_ dressed more practically than he usually was, with a long ride in winter weather ahead of him. He and Ser Allard would be braving the elements on horseback, while Sansa would be jostled about inside one of the royal wheelhouses. Not the grand one that Queen Cersei had favoured, but a smaller, sturdier one, capable of transporting six ladies and a fair bit of luggage. Other riders would accompany them as well, Stark household guards and gold cloaks for the most part. Plenty of protection, but hopefully not so much as to draw too much attention on the road. The servants and household members that Sansa and Shireen had chosen to accompany them would be departing at first light on the morrow, bringing the rest of the luggage. Splitting their travelling party up in this way was a further attempt to draw less attention on the road.

Sansa and Jeyne were dressed plainly and warmly just like Ser Gerald, and Sansa’s mirth faded rapidly as memories of the first time she’d had to run from the Red Keep - when she had escaped with her sister and her father to Dragonstone - began to intrude. They’d all had to wear worn, smelly old cloaks to disguise themselves, and while Arya had behaved as if it had all been some grand adventure, Sansa had been heartbroken.

Or so she had thought.

Stannis was waiting in the yard, barking orders at the servants and examining the horses personally. Had she not known better, she would have assumed he was simply in a foul temper, but she recognised the tautness around his eyes, and the particular set of his jaw.

 _He is anxious,_ she thought, a pang in her chest.

Shireen and her ladies were standing well away from the horses and the wet mud their hooves kicked up as they shifted restlessly, eager to be off. Ser Barristan and Uncle Brynden were near the ladies, speaking to each other with serious expressions on their faces.

“I’m going to go say farewell to Devan,” Jeyne said, squeezing Sansa’s hand and crossing over to her husband. Devan was standing beside Ser Allard’s horse, speaking to his brother. Sansa saw him open his arms to embrace Jeyne tightly, but averted her eyes when they kissed.

“There you are,” Stannis said when he spotted her. “And Ser Gerald,” he said, nodding at the knight. “Your horse is over there.” The words were spoken in a pointed tone of voice that not even the simplest fool could have misunderstood. _Get gone._

“Your Grace,” Ser Gerald said, bowing with only a hint of a smirk, and sauntering off to mount his horse. Sansa saw that Ser Allard was already ready atop his destrier, though it took her a moment to recognise him. It was odd to see him wearing browns and blacks. Somehow it did not seem as odd to see Ser Gerald dressed thus.

Blushing faintly, she looked at Stannis. His stony mask from the small council meeting was slipping.

“I will miss you,” she said, reaching up to touch his jawline.

He swallowed, searching her eyes as if they were a feast, and he starved. “You will be safe on Tarth,” he said, his tone so fierce that she wondered whether he was trying to convince her or himself. “There have been scorpions there for some time, traditional ones as well as a new, experimental design. The Lord of Tarth’s men have had ample opportunity to work on their aim.” He covered her hand with his, moving it from his jaw to his lips and pressing a firm kiss into the palm. His lips were hot, his skin scratchy, and a tingly little thrill shot through her, settling between her thighs where she could still feel the ghost of his attentions.

Sansa nodded, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. A part of her was wondering why he had not told her uncle about Tarth’s scorpions at the meeting earlier. _Perhaps Uncle Brynden already knew. He seemed more worried about the threat of Victarion’s fleet than dragons, after all._ But mostly she dwelled on the fact that she would not be able to look into his eyes like this on the morrow. Nor feel his kisses. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, her voice failing her halfway through. There was no room for her lungs in her chest.

“If I should fall,” he said, his eyes flashing, “Shireen -” He swallowed and glanced downwards at Sansa’s stomach. 

Her insides churned. _Does he expect me to do what my mother did? Conceive an heir so quickly?_ Maester Gormon had long since informed her that it was highly unlikely. _And yet it is possible…_ “We discussed this,” she said, breathing sharply in through her nose and swallowing the lump in her throat. “You will not fall. We will be together again before - before long.”

He clenched his jaw and nodded once, though his eyes were devoid of hope.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Stannis closed his eyes and inhaled, his expression pained. “I - I must go,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Farewell.” He pressed a kiss to her brow and made to step back, but she threw her arms around his neck to fix him in place. She did not care that they were being watched; she would have a proper kiss farewell from her husband. His body stiffened for a fraction of a heartbeat when their lips met, hers crashing stubbornly into his, but then he made a small sound of want in the back of his throat and embraced her tightly, holding her as if he never intended to let go. 

She was not sure he would have, had they been alone.

He wrenched himself away after a long moment - _but not long enough_ \- walked over to Shireen to kiss the top of her head and say something Sansa did not hear over the rushing sound in her ears, and then he was gone. 

_Gone._

Ser Barristan nodded at her, his face solemn, and then he disappeared too. Swallowed by the Red Keep.

“Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you, my dear?” Uncle Brynden asked quietly, pulling her into a warm embrace.

“Yes,” Sansa said, squeezing her uncle very tightly before retreating. “I meant what I said at the meeting.”

“I know,” Brynden said. He wore a soft smile that looked decidedly out of place on his craggy face. “You spoke like a true queen. Your mother would be bursting with pride if she were here.”

Her emotions were too raw and close to the surface, and at the mention of Mother she had to squeeze her eyes shut to prevent tears from escaping. “Stay safe,” she said, struggling to breathe.

“And you,” Brynden said, squeezing her shoulder and taking a step back. “Farewell, my queen.”

Devan assisted all six ladies into the wheelhouse, looking dashing in new armour. His eyes were grief-stricken, however. Sansa could see it even though he gave them all smiles and cheerful words of farewell. “I will see you all soon, fair ladies!”

The mood in the wheelhouse was tearful and tense as the horses began to move; the ladies silent. Again, Sansa was thinking of the last time she had fled King’s Landing. Back then, still practically a child, she had been too young to know true heartbreak. Sansa understood that now. And though she had cried genuine tears, and felt true sadness, there was no comparing the emotions she had felt then to the emotions that ravaged her now.

A gaping chasm had replaced her insides, and her blood was running slowly, almost as if it had been turned to tar.

Sansa mustered the courage to wave to the smallfolk that rushed out of their homes to cheer them as they passed through the streets of King’s Landing, and she and Shireen threw silver stags and made themselves smile. It did not feel honest to smile as she left them to the uncertain fate the coming war would bring, but there was nothing else she could do. _I will pray for them all. Every day. I swear it by the old gods and the new._

It was a relief to pass through the Gate of the Gods and find themselves on the kingsroad: clear of snow and surprisingly well kept. Sansa knew better than to expect a smooth ride, but it was not as bad as she had thought it would be. _Not yet._ They were to travel by the kingsroad to Storm’s End, and sail to Tarth from there, and who could say what the weather would do to the road as they made their way south?

Time passed. Sansa tried not to think of Stannis or Uncle Brynden, or of her family in Winterfell and at the Wall, but could not find anything else to dwell on. She clasped her hands together in her lap and bowed her head, her lips moving as she prayed in silence.

“We will see our husbands again,” Jeyne said shortly after Sansa ran out of prayers, leaning in to embrace her. “Just wait and see.”

“I hope so,” Sansa whispered, glancing at Shireen. The princess was asleep, sitting with Alynna and Marissa on the seat opposite. Alynna was looking out at the road, while Marissa was speaking quietly with Carellen, who was sitting on Jeyne’s other side.

“Don’t be sad,” Jeyne said, squeezing her once before letting her go. “We _will_ see them again.” She was clasping Sansa’s hands now, almost tightly enough to crush her fingers.

Sansa nodded, trying her best to be hopeful. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on breathing. But every breath was a struggle now that it seemed a knife had been stuck into her breast, piercing her heart and filling her lungs with broken glass.

“Tarth is very beautiful,” Lady Alynne suddenly said. “I’ve been there many times with my family. Greenstone is not far when you travel by sea.”

“Perhaps we will be able to visit Greenstone?” Jeyne said. “It is your family’s seat on Estermont, is it not?”

Alynne nodded. “Nothing so grand as the Red Keep or Winterfell, but yes.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Jeyne said. “The king’s mother was an Estermont, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” Alynne said proudly. “Lady Cassana Estermont. She was my grandfather’s sister.”

Sansa listened to Jeyne ask Alynne more questions about her family, Greenstone, and Tarth. Their voices were soothing, and it was nice not having to think.

“It would be much better if it were spring,” Alynne lamented some time later. “When the sun shines and the grass grows there is nowhere in Westeros half so beautiful. The ocean around Estermont and Tarth becomes sapphire blue, and the sea-turtles all crawl up on the beaches on still, warm nights to lay their eggs.”

“I’d like to see a sea-turtle,” Shireen said with a yawn, having only just woken.

“Me too,” Marissa said, smiling sadly.

“Mayhaps we will,” Alynne said. “Though I would not count on it. They are easier to spot when it’s warm.”

Shireen yawned again. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two hours or so,” Jeyne said.

“Only two?” Shireen looked disappointed. “I hoped I’d sleep for longer. I barely slept at all last night.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one who didn’t get much sleep,” Carellen said innocently.

Sansa looked out the window, blushing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeyne conceal a smile behind a hand.

Shireen sighed. “Well, how long until our next stop?”

“We ought to stop for a rest in another hour,” Jeyne said, glancing out at the sky. It was overcast and getting darker by the minute, so Sansa did not know how Jeyne was managing to estimate the time, but Jeyne had always had a knack for these things. “But now I think we ought to close the shutters,” she went on. “It will be getting even colder now that the sun is nearly down.” 

And with that, Sansa’s view of the outside world was taken away.

***

Sansa was too bone-weary to really take in her surroundings when they finally made it to Evenfall Hall after three days of hard travel. The second travelling party had caught up to them at Storm’s End, and they had all been able to sail to Tarth together. The seas had been uneasy - though they had been spared the storm that their ship’s captain had been worried about - and though she had not been as ill as Jeyne, her stomach had yet to settle properly.

She did note that there wasn’t very much snow on the ground, though it was cold. It was a wet, windy sort of cold that she did not much like. It reminded her of Dragonstone, though it had not been winter when she had been there. Maybe it was simply something that islands had in common.

Evenfall Hall was a sturdy, practical castle built on and near some very sharp, terrifying cliffs by the ocean. Getting to the keep had been a struggle, but Sansa felt safer now because of it. Carellen exclaimed at the view, and Sansa heard Alynna say that they should be able to see Storm’s End from the castle on clear days.

It was a blessing that they had arrived with plenty of time to spare before dinner. Lord Selwyn of Tarth - the Evenstar himself - greeted them briefly from the battlements. Apologetically, he asked if they would allow Maester Colbat to examine them all, to ascertain whether they were free of greyscale before they were allowed to enter the keep. “A new security measure recommended by Grand Maester Gormon himself,” he said. “Given the rapid spread of the grey plague on the mainland.”

They all agreed to the examination, and trooped into a drafty little outbuilding near the castle gate where Maester Colbat examined them one by one. Though he wore an odd mask and reeked of vinegar, Sansa found the maester to be efficient and respectful. He pricked her finger at the end, with a sharp needle that he dipped in vinegar first, and nodded to himself when she winced at the pain. 

Once they were finally inside the keep, Lord Selwyn took the knee before her and Shireen, and offered them bread and salt. Sansa was grateful when he made quick work of it. 

Was that why Stannis disliked pageantry? Was he always this weary?

Servants plied her with wine, and she was taken to her beautifully appointed guest chambers where she was delighted to find a tub of hot water so that she might bathe. After Ella had finished helping her dress, she felt more like herself than she had in days.

Lord Tarth’s largest hall was not nearly so grand as the Great Hall in the Red Keep, nor even the Great Hall in Winterfell. But it was comfortable, warm, and the scent of mouth-watering food lingered in the air. Sansa found that she did not care about anything else at the moment. She was to sit at the high table, on Lord Selwyn’s immediate right. Princess Shireen was to be seated on his left. Sansa had been told that Lord Selwyn had lost his wife, and three of his four children, so she guessed that the person currently standing next to him was his sole remaining daughter.

Before they took their seats, introductions were made. “Your Grace, allow me to present my daughter, Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Lady Brienne was an uncommonly large woman; Sansa might have mistaken her for a man had she not been in a dress. _She is almost as tall as Sandor Clegane._ She had a plain, freckled face, her nose had been broken at some point, and she did not smile. Her eyes were very pretty, however. Big and blue. The emotion in them took Sansa by surprise.

“Lady Brienne, I’m pleased to meet you,” Sansa said, reaching for Brienne’s hands to clasp them.

“And I you, Your Grace,” Brienne said, though her words seemed to trip off her tongue a little clumsily. “You look very much like your lady mother.” A blotchy flush followed her words, and Brienne took a step back from Sansa and looked down at the floor.

“You know my mother?” 

Brienne glanced at her father. Lord Selwyn pursed his lips, but did not look very forbidding.

“I - I was with Lord Renly when your mother came to him on behalf of King Stannis and Lord Stark.”

“You were?” she said, curious to know more. Sansa had vague memories of her mother being involved in forging the alliance between Stannis and Renly, but she had never been told the full story of how it had happened. She did know that her mother had been asked to go to Renly because she had already been south of the Neck due to that business with Tyrion Lannister and Aunt Lysa, but more than that she had never been able to glean. She had been so happy to be reunited with her mother in King’s Landing after the Battle of the Blackwater that she had not thought to ask very many questions. And the questions she had asked had not always received answers.

Brienne nodded, but did not say anything else for the time being. Shireen had her turn greeting Brienne, and they all sat down at the table. Lord Selwyn stood and made some announcements and a toast that Sansa barely listened to. The first course was served: a piping hot leek and onion soup.

“How did you come to be with Lord Renly when my mother met with him?” Sansa asked Brienne as soon as she politely could. Thankfully, Brienne had been seated on Sansa’s immediate right.

Brienne told her a story that defied belief. Apparently, Brienne was a stout fighter with armour of her own. She had been able to defeat an entire melee of grown men at the Tourney of Bitterbridge, and thus win the opportunity to serve Lord Renly as a member of his private guard. Sansa had not known exactly how close Renly had been to declaring himself king until she heard Brienne’s tale. A chill ran down her spine at the thought.

“You have armour?” It was all she could think to say.

The blotchy flush returned. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“My sister would like you,” Sansa said quietly, her heart squeezing at the thought of Arya. It had been so long since she had seen her, but Sansa was certain her sister would adore Brienne. They rarely exchanged letters - Arya was a very poor correspondent - but Sansa resolved to write Arya a long letter about Brienne as soon as she had the opportunity.

Brienne blinked uncertainly at her. “You’re welcome to come to the training field tomorrow morning if you wish to see me wear it,” she said slowly, still flushed. 

Sansa was surprised by the offer, but did her best to keep her face pleasant. “I’d be delighted,” she said, though she hoped very much that Brienne did not keep Stannis’s hours. “And you are most welcome to join my sewing circle,” she said brightly, “so that you may meet my friends.”

Looking quite as surprised by Sansa’s offer as Sansa had been at Brienne’s, Brienne opened and closed her mouth, glanced at her father, and then down at her food. “I - thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sansa said. “But you haven’t finished your tale,” she added gently. “About how you met my mother.”

Brienne looked up quickly. “I was guarding Lord Renly when your mother came to see him, Your Grace. She is a very great lady.” She hesitated. “She - she was kind to me, after Lord Renly was slain.” The emotion that had been brimming in Brienne’s eyes upon their introduction was back.

“Did you fight in the Battle of the Blackwater, too?”

“Yes.” Brienne closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. “But I - I couldn’t save him.”

They had moved on to the second course, but Sansa put down her cutlery in order to clasp Brienne’s hand. “I’m sure you would have, had there been a way.”

Brienne gave a tremulous closed-lipped smile, but did not meet Sansa’s eyes for very long.

Sansa understood that Brienne needed a moment to collect herself, so she focused on her plate for the time being. The second course was a simple dish of flaky white fish, served with butter, turnips and carrots, but the flavours were good and familiar.

Lord Tarth asked her for news soon after the second course was cleared from the table, and Sansa did not manage to converse very much with Brienne after that. But before the feast ended, Sansa reminded her that she would truly be most welcome in her sewing circle.

“Was that Lord Selwyn’s daughter sitting next to you at dinner?” Jeyne asked. She and Shireen’s ladies had just caught up to Sansa and Shireen on their way out of the feast hall, and Ser Allard and Ser Gerald were trailing after them all.

“It was,” Sansa said.

“Poor thing. She’s horribly ugly. Little wonder she remains unwed. Lord Selwyn should really consider taking a new wife and trying for a proper heir.”

Unconsciously, Sansa’s hand went to her stomach. “Jeyne,” Sansa admonished, dropping her hand and glancing at Shireen. Shireen did not appear to be paying their conversation much mind. She seemed to be listening to Alynna, Carellen and Marissa, but Sansa noted that her skin was flushed. “That’s none of your concern. She’s very nice. I’ve asked her to join our sewing circle.”

“Can she even sew?”

Shireen’s flush deepened. Though Sansa knew her skills had improved since she’d made Stannis’s old handkerchief, she also knew sewing was not a pastime the princess favoured.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, frowning at Jeyne. She wished she would not speak in this way in front of Shireen. “But it does not matter. I would like her to sit with us and get to know us all. She knows my lady mother.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ll ask her to tell you all about it tomorrow. It’s a very exciting story with a tourney and a battle. She’s a skilled fighter, and she’s invited me to watch her on the training field tomorrow morning.”

Jeyne’s eyes widened. “She fights? Like a man?”

“She was one of Lord Renly’s private guards,” Sansa said. “But you will hear the story from her tomorrow.”

If she could have, Sansa would have spoken to Shireen alone before retiring to the chambers she had been given. As things stood, all she could do was hope that Shireen had not been very upset by Jeyne’s tactless words.

By the time Sansa was abed, she was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, but thoughts of Stannis kept intruding now that she had no distractions to keep her mind busy. She kept wondering what he might be doing, and whether he was safe. A cold fist seized her heart, and she tossed and turned, her skin clammy.

_Will I ever see him again?_

***

Sansa’s first days on Tarth passed by in an odd grey haze. She did her best to conceal her listlessness for Shireen’s sake, but the chasm in her chest was growing deeper, and she wished she could just _know_ that Stannis was safe. That King’s Landing was safe. But without news, it was impossible to know, and news was not easy to come by on Tarth. Ravens were only sent when the occasion warranted it and rarely received, and boat traffic had been heavily curtailed on Lord Selwyn’s orders. He was determined to keep the grey plague from infecting the island’s inhabitants.

If she could have, Sansa would have remained in bed past lunch every day. But that would certainly cause Shireen to worry, so Sansa attempted to establish a routine that had her leaving bed, getting dressed, and going out of doors at a reasonable hour. Sometimes she would go to the training field to watch Brienne, the knights, and the men-at-arms at their drills, but sometimes she would go straight to the sept to pray.

Today she went to the training field.

“Is today the day?” Ser Gerald said, his voice carrying easily to Sansa’s preferred spot near the entrance to the field, where she had a good view, but was still somewhat sheltered from the weather. It was windy, but only mildly wet. “Will you spar with me, my lady?”

He was speaking to Brienne. Ever since he had seen her defeat one of the gold cloaks, he had been chomping at the bit to have a go. But she has not obliged him as of yet.

“Why are you so eager to be humiliated, ser?” Brienne asked, no trace of her blotchy flush in sight. On the training field, in her beautiful blue armour, she carried herself differently than she did when she came to sit with Sansa and the other ladies. She moved gracefully, with confidence and pride and not a trace of awkwardness.

“I am a knight of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerald said with a smirk. “Who says you will humiliate me?”

“I’ll wager she will,” Ser Rohar, the master-at-arms, shouted. The men of Evenfall Hall all laughed, while the men of King’s Landing glowered.

“There, now you must fight and prove Ser Rohar right!” Ser Gerald exclaimed, grinning widely now. “Or wrong,” he added, quirking a brow.

“Fine,” Brienne said, shaking her head. “If it will shut you up.”

Sansa smiled to herself. _He will never shut up._ Privately, she thought Ser Gerald was rather bold to challenge Brienne. She was taller and wider than he was, and she fought well.

Their fight was longer than the usual sparring match. They spent a good while circling one another. Ser Gerald attempted to taunt her, but Brienne kept quiet, letting his words roll off her back like water off a duck’s wing, her eyes watchful. Finally, Ser Gerald lost his patience and attacked, but Brienne sidestepped or parried every blow, and continued to circle.

Sansa could see that Ser Gerald was getting tired. He was breathing too quickly, and his movements were slowing. Brienne saw it too, because she chose that moment to launch her own attack. She was brutal and _fast_ , and when Ser Gerald left her an opening, she made swift use of it. In the blink of an eye he was on the ground, groaning and laughing. 

“Yield!” he said, reaching for a hand up before she offered it. After a moment’s hesitation she obliged him. “Best two out of three?” he asked cheerfully.

Brienne rolled her eyes and withdrew her hand from his as if touching him had burned her. “No.”

“Some other contest, then?” Ser Gerald asked, undaunted. “I’ve heard you’re a fair shot, my lady. I’m not bad with a bow, myself.”

“I’ve not been using a bow and arrow of late,” Brienne said, crossing her arms.

“Oh?”

“Lady Brienne never misses her target with the new scorpion the king sent,” Ser Rohar said. “She’s going to slay herself a dragon,” he went on, chortling.

Brienne glared at the master-at-arms while all the other men in the yard chuckled.

“Well, that I have to see!” Ser Gerald said.

After some protesting on her part, and a lot of cajoling on Ser Gerald’s part, Brienne finally agreed to demonstrate her skill with the king’s scorpion. Sansa took a step closer when the device was wheeled out, and a target set up clear on the other side of the field. It was a large, wooden contraption, though there were metal parts as well. It appeared almost as if a gigantic bow had been placed on a scaffold on its side, and an enormous arrow fixed in place. In order to draw back the bowstring, Brienne had to turn wheel-like handles. Aiming seemed to require a fair bit of strength, precision, and dexterity.

 _It all takes so much time,_ Sansa thought, her stomach squeezing in on itself. A dragon might have set fire to them all while Brienne got herself ready to shoot.

Once Brienne finally loosed the fearsome arrow, it hit its wooden target on the other side of the field, dead centre. There was a smattering of applause, in which Sansa joined.

“Impressive,” Ser Gerald said, eyeing Brienne appreciatively. “That is no easy feat, my lady.”

Brienne frowned at him, her figure tense.

“You should see her shoot from the battlements,” Ser Rohar said. “We’ve used floating targets, and she’s hit them nine times out of ten.”

“Sounds like good fun,” Ser Gerald said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d like to try that, if I may.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps. The tide is no good for it now,” Ser Rohar said. “But you’re welcome to try your luck with the stationary target,” he added, gesturing at the target Brienne had already hit. 

“Only if Lady Brienne will agree to _instruct_ me personally,” Ser Gerald countered, aiming a roguish wink at Brienne.

The blotchy flush was back on Brienne’s face, and Sansa had half a mind to march over to Ser Gerald and _instruct_ him on how to be courteous instead.

The following morning, Sansa found herself on the battlements of Evenfall Hall along with Jeyne, Shireen, and Alynna. There were plenty of men about as well, both Lord Selwyn’s and the King’s Landing retinue. Carellen and Marissa had not been interested in watching Brienne hit floating targets with the king’s scorpion, and Jeyne had almost stayed behind with them.

“I’m not feeling well,” she’d said when Sansa had asked for her company. But she had changed her mind when Sansa had explained the spectacle that they would be sure to see. Still, she looked a little green, and Sansa wondered whether she’d had too much wine the night before.

Lady Brienne was every bit as accurate a shot as Ser Rohar had promised, and hit three floating targets for every one anyone else managed. Ser Gerald was not a poor shot, but Brienne was better at predicting the way the waves of the ocean would push and pull the flat, wooden barges that had been set loose as targets. They were poorly made things that did not survive more than two or three of the enormous practise arrows before breaking apart into driftwood.

“I’m sure these practise arrows are lighter than the proper ones,” Ser Gerald said, scowling after he’d missed a shot. “The wind blew that one off course!”

But Ser Rohar refused to let him try with a proper arrow. “Too wasteful,” he said, shaking his head. “Unless you want to swim out and fetch them back?”

“Yes, Ser Gerald, are you going to go for a swim?” Jeyne asked with a laugh, her colour much improved by the fresh air.

“What’s that?” Shireen suddenly asked, preventing Ser Gerald from answering Jeyne. Sansa looked in the direction where Shireen was pointing. There was a shape: something dark on the water in the distance.

“A boat,” Alynna said. “Fresh supplies, I expect.”

Sansa’s heart leapt. _And maybe some news from the mainland._

It took an age for the boat to pull in at the dock, and Sansa fidgeted her way through the long, slow hours of waiting. Nothing would distract her for long. She could usually get lost in the pages of a story book, envisioning the story as if it were happening right around her, but now she found herself reading and rereading the same line, over and over until she threw the book away in disgust. Poetry was no better. Embroidery did not soothe her either. Her stitches were uneven and horrible, and she’d have to unpick it all and start over later. Jeyne and Shireen both attempted to distract her with conversation, and Shireen even offered a game of cyvasse. While their conversation was welcome, Sansa did not think she’d be able to concentrate on a game at all. _I’m being silly. There might not even be any news to be had. The boat might be full of supplies and nothing else._

Finally, as Sansa sat with Jeyne, Shireen, and her ladies, attempting to force herself to have some tea, a servant knocked, and was told to enter.

“Your Grace,” the servant said, bowing deeply, “a messenger from King’s Landing has arrived.” Sansa’s heart was in her throat at once, and she had to restrain herself to keep from leaping to her feet. “He is being examined by Maester Colbat at the moment, but he asked to see you as soon as you were available,” the servant finished.

“Take me to them,” Sansa said at once, getting up as calmly as she could.

Shireen and the others looked at her with concern in their eyes. “Would you like me to accompany you?” Shreen asked.

Sansa hesitated. Would it be better, if the news from King’s Landing was bad, if Shireen was not there to hear it from the messenger? Might Sansa be able to soften the blow somehow? “I would,” Sansa said, deciding that Shireen had every right to hear whatever news, good or bad, as soon as she did. _If the news is bad, we will at least have each other for comfort._ “Thank you.”

The servant escorted them to the outbuilding where Maester Colbat was examining the messenger. Ser Allard followed them, a tense look in his eyes.

“Maester Colbat will alert you when he has finished,” the servant said, leaving them to wait outside the door to the outbuilding. It was windy - it always seemed to be windy - and Shireen’s teeth were chattering. Ser Allard put an arm around her, allowing the princess to share his cloak.

Sansa focused on taking deep, even breaths, and forced herself not to pace. Shireen clasped one of her hands, and Sansa squeezed it gratefully. Ser Allard stood very still, but Sansa could feel his worry as clearly as she could feel her heart hammering away in her chest.

The door opened, and Sansa held her breath. Ser Allard took a step back from Shireen, his stance becoming alert, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Maester Colbat emerged, removing his strange mask. Beneath it, his thin, papery skin looking even paler than it had when Sansa had first seen him.

“I’m afraid you will have to keep your distance from the messenger, Your Grace,” the maester said. “He has contracted the grey plague, and will have to be kept in isolation to keep it from spreading.” He looked over his shoulder. “You may hear his messages from the doorway, but I would not have you enter here.”

Sansa covered her mouth, her blood chilling. _The grey plague? Truly?_ Somehow she had not thought it would come to Tarth; Lord Selwyn was being so careful.

Maester Colbat moved, allowing Sansa and Shireen to see inside. Standing there, looking shaken and confused, was Maric Seaworth.

Ser Allard made a choked noise of disbelief, and Shireen inhaled sharply.

“Maric!”

And before Sansa could so much as blink, Shireen had entered the little building and embraced him.

“Shireen!” Sansa and Ser Allard both cried in unison. Sansa made to follow her, thinking to pull her back outside, but Ser Allard gripped her shoulders firmly, keeping her still. He was breathing hard, and clutching at her more tightly than he needed to.

“It is well,” Shireen said, her voice remarkably clear and steady. “I have had greyscale before. The grey plague won’t take me.”

“It is better not to take any risks, Your Grace,” Maester Colbat said, sounding furious. “But now that you have exposed yourself by touching the young man, you will have to remain in there with him until we find you both more suitable accommodations!”

“I don’t care,” Shireen said, lifting her chin. She turned to Maric. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough as of yet,” he said, his voice shaking. “But I have news I must share.”

“I’m sure it will keep,” Sansa said, glancing at Maester Colbat. “Can we not find them both rooms where they might be more comfortable? Maric is the Hand of the King’s own son, and he needs rest.” She touched one of Ser Allard’s hands where he was still clutching at her, doing her best to offer him comfort. The touch seemed to jolt him; he immediately took his hands off her with a mumbled apology.

Maester Colbat paled even further. He appeared almost completely bloodless now. “Seven gods! The Hand’s son?”

“The blame is not yours, Maester Colbat,” Sansa said fimly. “But Lord Selwyn must be informed.”

Nodding, the maester seemed to gather himself up. “I will see to it, Your Grace. Please do not follow the princess in there.”

“I won’t.”

When he was gone, she looked at Maric again, her heart breaking for Davos and Lady Marya. But then she scolded herself. _He may survive._

“Please,” Maric said, “I have a message from His Grace.”

“What is it?” Shireen asked. “What does Father say?”

“He says you must stay here,” Maric said, looking from Shireen to Sansa, his brow furrowed and his eyes anxious. “King’s Landing is besieged.”


	23. The Grey Plague

Sansa gasped, sucking in air as if she had been underwater and not asleep, her heart racing like a galloping palfrey.

 _It was just another nightmare. Be calm._ The details of it were already fading, but she knew it must have been like the others. Some version of returning to King’s Landing to find the city in ruins, ash raining from the sky, and Stannis dead at the foot of steps to the Iron Throne. Sometimes she saw him with black, charred flesh as if he had been burned alive. Sometimes she saw him skeletally thin, eyes hollow and starved.

It was several moments before her hands were steady enough to light a candle. She knew what she would find once she had light to see; she could feel the familiar cramping sensation low in her belly.

The bloodstain on the sheets confirmed her suspicion. Her courses had come. Right on time.

Drawing her knees to her chin, Sansa curled up and wept.

***

A week had gone by since Maric had arrived. He and Shireen had been moved to a fisherman’s cottage on the outskirts of the castle village after his illness had been discovered; the fisherman’s family given room and board at the castle instead. Two days later, Shireen had been deemed immune to the grey plague, and allowed to return to her chambers in Evenfall Hall. She visited Maric every day, however, nursing him diligently and hearing the news he brought from the city.

“The siege hadn’t started when Father sent Maric away from King’s Landing, but they knew it was coming,” Shireen reported in Sansa’s sewing circle. Every lady present watched her raptly, their embroidery quite forgotten. “Apparently Daenerys Targaryen was not keen to negotiate,” she added sadly. “Maric said she claims the Iron Throne is her birthright.”

“Well, that’s understandable, isn’t it?” Marissa asked, screwing her face up. “She’s the Mad King’s daughter, isn’t she?”

“Marissa Swann!” Alynna scolded. “You should know better than to speak so treasonously. Have you paid no attention to your history lessons?”

Marissa reddened. “I just meant if Robert and Stannis hadn’t been kings, then Daenerys would be the rightful heir, wouldn’t she?” She looked from Alynna to Shireen. “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace.”

Shireen did not look offended. “I think she would be the rightful heir if the rebellion hadn’t happened,” she said thoughtfully. “Rhaegar and his children are all dead. And Daenerys’s other brother is dead, too.”

“But the rebellion _did_ happen,” Alynna said, clicking her tongue. “And the Targaryens lost their claim. A good thing, too. Remember all the wildfire caches that King Stannis discovered after the Battle of the Blackwater? The Mad King nearly set them all off at the end of the rebellion.”

_And he murdered my grandfather and uncle when they came to him seeking justice._

“I thought that was just a story,” Carellen said.

“No, it’s true. My uncle told me it all came out in the Kingslayer’s trial,” Alynna insisted.

Sansa nodded along, remembering her father saying something about it at the time. Arya had been very excited by the idea of all that wildfire, but Sansa had just been relieved that it had all been disposed of. She had been terrified to learn that she had unwittingly been sleeping on top of it for _months._

“But with Dorne’s support and three dragons, Daenerys could take the throne by right of conquest,” Carellen pointed out, tilting her head to the side. “Could she not?”

Alynna glared at her and opened her mouth to argue, but Sansa was not in the mood for their bickering. “What I want to know is how Maric can be certain King’s Landing really is besieged if he left before it had begun?” she asked.

They all looked at Shireen for answers.

“Maric said Daenerys told Father what she intended to do. She wanted to give him a chance to surrender.”

Carellen gave an unladylike snort. “As if he would.”

Shireen ignored this. “Father intends to keep his ships at anchor and the gates to the city barred until support arrives from the Vale and the Reach. He sees no reason to shed blood needlessly if Daenerys does not force him to arms. He is not impatient.”

“Will barred gates do much to keep her armies out? Will she not simply use her dragons to burn her way through?” Brienne asked, frowning. She tended to be silent when she joined Sansa’s sewing circle, so Sansa smiled at her, glad that she was participating. Brienne gave a hesitant, close-lipped smile back.

“Father has his scorpions,” Shireen reminded them. “But if Daenerys truly wanted to burn her way into the city, I don’t think she’d let scorpions stop her. Maric says that it is her wish to rule over living subjects that is staying her hand.”

“Well, that is encouraging,” Carellen said, looking from face to face as if to see whether they agreed. “Don’t you all think so?”

“Perhaps,” Shireen said, sighing morosely. “But Maric was present for one of the parlays, and he says that Daenerys seems… misinformed. She seems to think the people of Westeros have been waiting for her return, lifting secret toasts to her health and hiding dragon banners in anticipation, crying out for a Targaryen to sit upon the Iron Throne once more. She believes her cause to be righteous.”

A tense hush followed her words. 

Sansa wondered if it could be true, her stomach tightening. _Varys said Prince Doran supports her. Perhaps there are others like him?_

“I wish King Stannis had sent Devan to deliver the message,” Jeyne said, breaking the silence. Her shoulders slumped, her face wan. She had been sitting by the window, staring out at the sea.

“You ought to be glad he didn’t,” Carellen pointed out. “Or he would be the one dying of the grey plague.”

“Maric is not dying,” Shireen said firmly. “Maester Colbat knows treatments, and I’ve told him what the maesters did for me when I was little. We’re going to save him.”

“You had greyscale, though,” Alynna said, her voice careful. “The grey plague is different. It doesn’t just infect children in the cold, damp places of the world. It spreads swiftly to anyone who comes into contact with it, and it’s much deadlier. Haven’t you heard what happened in Oldtown, years ago?”

“I’ve heard,” Brienne mumbled.

Sansa searched her memory, but despite having read what felt like an entire library’s worth of books by maesters and septons since she’d started her lessons with Maester Gormon, she could not recall anything about Oldtown and a plague.

“The plague was spreading like wildfire through Oldtown and the Citadel, so Lord Quenton Hightower ordered all the gates barred, all the ships at anchor burned, and those who tried to flee be killed,” Alynna said, staring down at her hands as she spoke. “It was the only way to keep the plague contained.”

They all went quiet after that.

But that had been nearly a week ago. In the present moment, the sound of the Narrow Sea crashing against Tarth’s rocky beaches was all-consuming: a steady rhythm accompanying the wind’s mournful song. 

She stood by the castle gates, listening to nature’s music and watching the road with tired eyes. She had not managed to fall back to sleep after she had awoken to the bloodstain on her sheets in the early hours of the night. The cramps had kept her restless, and she had been frightened of more nightmares.

Her guard shifted from foot to foot, his golden cloak flapping in the wind. Sansa paid him no mind. She was watching the two figures on the road leading to the castle, walking steadily nearer. Ser Allard was a shining beacon in pure white, Shireen’s dark clothing a sharp contrast.

She hugged her cloak closer about her. Allard and Shireen were near enough now for Sansa to smell the vinegar on them, and to make out Shireen’s expression. She did not look as if she had been crying. _Maric must still be alive._

“How is he?” Sansa asked when Shireen reached her.

“Not well,” Shireen said quietly. “Maester Colbat’s remedies do not seem to be helping anymore.”

Ser Allard looked pale and drawn, his eyes hollow. A sharp pang of sympathy cut through her. _How must it feel to be forced to stand guard outside? To not be allowed inside the cottage to see his brother?_ No one but Shireen and Maester Colbat were allowed inside the cottage. And Maester Colbat only went inside rarely, and only while wearing his strange mask.

“But that isn’t the worst of it,” Shireen said, her eyes serious. “Two more villagers are ill.”

The boat Maric had arrived on had carried no passengers other than him, and Maester Colbat had ordered the supplies it had brought cleaned with vinegar if possible, or burned if not. Despite these measures, a villager had fallen ill three days ago. And now it seemed the plague was spreading.

_How long do we have until it finds its way to the castle?_

Sansa didn’t know what to say. A sharp gust of wind blew the hood of her cloak off of her head, and she pulled it back up. “Let’s go inside. I’ve asked for tea to be served in my chambers.”

The walk to Sansa’s chambers was quiet, and Sansa almost wished Ser Gerald was not busy on the training field. Had he been with them, she was sure he would have distracted them all from their dark thoughts.

Once she and Shireen had settled in Sansa’s chambers, warming their hands on steaming cups of tea, Sansa looked carefully at Shireen, taking in the far-off look in her eyes, and the familiar, anxious set of her jaw. “You look tired,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “Are you getting enough rest?”

“I’m well,” Shireen said, a flare of stubbornness bringing her back to herself. “I’m more worried about Allard. And you. You look as if you’ve not slept a wink in a week.” Her tone was at once reproving and concerned. 

Sansa swallowed a scalding sip of tea, burning her tongue. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” she admitted. “But you mustn’t worry about me.”

“Bad dreams?” Shireen did not look convinced. 

With another, more careful sip, Sansa nodded, not meeting Shireen’s eyes. A painful cramp in her lower belly reminded her that she was not telling Shireen the whole truth. 

Shireen put her cup down with a soft clink. “Sansa, please, what is it?”

Sansa shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to smile. “Truly.”

“Something has happened,” Shireen said, the frown in her voice clearly audible. “You look as if you’re in pain.”

“I’m only worried about Maric. And Allard, and those poor villagers,” Sansa said, blushing at the lie. It was only half a lie, however. She _was_ worried about them all. She was just… worried about other things as well.

Shireen said nothing. She simply gave Sansa the most Stannis-like stare: piercing and unrelenting.

With a sigh, Sansa put her cup down, too. “I am not in very much pain,” Sansa said, trying to keep her sadness out of her voice. “You will understand once you have flowered. Which should be soon, now that I think on it.”

A pink tinge appeared on Shireen’s cheeks. “Oh.” Her embarrassment lingered for a moment before her eyes widened with understanding. “ _Oh._ But that means… you are - you are not with child, then?” 

Sansa tried to hide her surprise that Shireen - an unflowered maiden - knew how to make that connection, but must not have been very successful. 

“My mother was always trying to give Father a son. I could not help overhearing a few things,” Shireen explained, shifting awkwardly in her seat.

“Well, you’re right. I’m not with child. I - I’ve missed my chance to conceive an heir,” Sansa said, the relief of the confession filling her for one cleansing moment. But it was immediately followed by a gut-churning sense of guilt and regret. “I’m sorry, I’m no better than Jeyne, discussing this with you. Please, let us talk of something else.”

“Jeyne?” Shireen sounded confused.

“The night we arrived here,” Sansa said in a rush, “she was talking about how Lord Selwyn should take a new wife and attempt to father a male heir. It was not tactful of her, but I’m sure she meant nothing by it. We both think you’d be a lovely queen.”

Shireen furrowed her brow, confusion etched into her face. But then her eyes widened, and she made a soft noise of comprehension. “Thank you.” She paused, her expression turning serious. “You know I’d do my duty if it fell to me, but it’s… it’s not what I want. I’d much prefer it if you gave me a brother one day.”

Sansa blinked back tears. “That’s just it,” she said, struggling to get the words out. “I’m afraid I’ll not have another chance to give you a brother.”

Reaching to clasp Sansa’s hand, Shireen gave her a reassuring smile. “You will. I’m sure of it.”

Sansa shook her head, unable to speak. Thankfully, Shireen just squeezed her hand before retracting it in silence, giving Sansa the space and the time to collect herself. Sansa focused on breathing for a while, looking at the fire in the hearth as it burned low.

“Do you think Maric will live through the night?” Sansa asked quietly, once she was sure she would not start weeping.

“He’s strong,” Shireen said, though her voice was brittle. “And...he’s been fighting so hard.”

Shireen did not have to go on. Sansa understood. _He’s been fighting, but now his strength is waning._ “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, hoping with all her heart that there was something. Anything. She needed to be helpful.

Ella came in with a fresh pot of tea, put it down on the table where Sansa and Shireen were sitting, and then went over to the hearth to stoke the fire. Shireen followed Ella with her eyes, seemingly considering Sansa’s question.

“Not unless you’ve thought of a cure for the grey plague.” She sighed. “I wish I could just give him my immunity to it.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Sansa said, closing her eyes to imagine it. _Princess Shireen, the Healer. What a song that would make..._

“If it were a pox you could do it,” Ella said, getting up from her place in front of the hearth and dusting her skirts off.

Sansa and Shireen both turned around to stare at her. “What do you mean, Ella?” Sansa asked, amazed by the girl’s pronouncement.

Ella went beet red. “I - I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

Sansa waved the apology away. “You mustn’t fret. Please explain what you meant.”

“I thought you would know, being from the north,” Ella said, blinking at Sansa. “You know,” she went on, searching Sansa’s face anxiously. “The milkmaids never get the pox proper. They get some mild version on their hands from the cow’s udders, and it doesn’t ruin their faces or make them go blind or anything.”

Shireen was suddenly sitting up very straight, a feverish light in her eyes. “But you said that if Maric had the pox, I’d be able to give him my immunity. What did you mean by that?”

“Mother used to -” Ella broke off, swallowing. “Before she died,” she went on in a subdued voice, “when we lived on our farm, Mother used to have the milkmaids give her scrapings off the pox pustules on their hands. She’d make us all a potion to drink from it, and those who drank it never got the proper pox. Or if they did, they didn’t get very sick.”

Shireen looked at Sansa at exactly the moment when Sansa looked at her. They stared at each other, and Sansa was sure they were both thinking the same thing.

“Perhaps Maester Colbat could make such a potion for Maric? From scrapings of my greyscale scars?” Shireen asked eagerly, touching the cracked, grey and black skin of her neck.

“It’s worth trying,” Sansa said, nodding. “I’m sure it won’t make him worse.” _He’s already dying._ “Ella, do you know what else was in your mother’s potion?” All the books Maester Gormon had made her read were very clear about how healing was a precise art. One plant could not always be substituted for another, and dosages had to be just right, too.

Ella bit her lip. “I - I remember maybe a few things.” She looked down at the floor. “She was going to teach me.”

“We must go to the maester at once,” Shireen said, getting to her feet.

It took some doing, and Sansa wasn’t sure Maester Colbat would have listened to them at all if they weren’t royalty, but they persuaded him to try making Ella’s potion. Aside from the scrapings Shireen donated, the ingredients were all fairly common, so it took no time at all to concoct.

Sansa wished she could be there when Shireen and Maester Colbat - wearing his protective mask - took the potion to Maric, but she was forced to stay behind. She paced in her chambers, her thoughts as unsettled as the rest of her. _What if it’s too late? What if it doesn’t work? What if Shireen’s scars are too old?_

After what felt like an age, Shireen knocked on her door, slipping inside with an unreadable expression. “He’s sleeping,” she said, answering Sansa’s unasked question. “Maester Colbat says I am to go see him tomorrow morning. We’ll know more then.”

“But he drank the potion?” Sansa asked, practically vibrating with restless energy. “All of it, like Ella said?”

“He did,” Shireen confirmed. “And Maester Colbat decided to try something else, as well.”

“Something else?”

“Yes. He - he thought that since my scars protect me from the grey plague, that perhaps he should try to transfer them more directly to Maric’s skin. Maric skin hasn’t turned grey, you see. It’s all internal for him.”

Sansa frowned. “But how can your scars be transferred?”

“He used his needle,” Shireen said. “The one he’s been using to test people’s fingertips. First he dipped it in vinegar, then he pricked my skin here, where it’s scarred.“ Shireen pointed to her neck. It must have been a tiny prick, for there was no blood, and aside from being flaky and grey, the skin appeared quite uninjured. “Then he pricked Maric’s arm.” 

Sansa nodded as if she understood even though it all sounded very strange. “Did you tell Ser Allard about all this?”

“Yes.” Shireen bit her lip. “He wanted to take the potion, too. It’s been so hard for him, not being able to come inside Maric’s cottage with me. He even asked Maester Colbat if he could have a mask like his, but Maester Colbat says it’s a special mask that has to fit perfectly. It was made for him in the Citadel.”

Sansa imagined how she would feel if Arya were gravely ill, and she couldn’t visit her bedside. Her heart ached sharply at the thought. “If Maric feels better on the morrow, I don’t see why Ser Allard shouldn’t be allowed to take the potion.”

“That’s what I said too,” Shireen said eagerly. “But Maester Colbat said we must wait. He says that if Maric gets better, he wants to try the treatment on the villagers who are sick.”

Waiting was terrible. Maric’s condition did not change at all for two days. He slept, cold as death and breathing with difficulty, and barely woke for long enough to accept the spoonfuls of a mixture of honey, water, and herbs Shireen offered him. But on the third day, Shireen came to Sansa with hope in her eyes.

“Perhaps it means nothing,” she said, wringing her hands, “but on his arm - where Maester Colbat pricked him with his needle - there’s a small patch of grey and black there now, just like my scars.”

On the fourth day, Maric woke up for long enough to say Shireen’s name.

“He even smiled at me!”

On the fifth day, his skin was warming, and he was able to sit up in his bed, and drink broth from a bowl.

The relief of his recovery was felt in the whole castle. Sansa was convinced that everyone was smiling more, but the change in Ser Allard was the most obvious. There was colour in his cheeks, a light in his eyes, and a spring in his step that Sansa did not think she had ever seen before.

Maester Colbat still did not deem it safe for anyone other than himself or Shireen to visit Maric while he completed his recovery, however.

“Give me that potion, then! Prick me with your needle. I don’t care. I _will_ see my brother.”

Sansa had gone to the Maester’s tower in the hope of hearing the latest news of Maric’s recovery, but it seemed that Ser Allard was already in with the maester. She stopped climbing the spiral staircase and glanced back at Ser Gerald, wondering what to do.

Ser Gerald brought a finger to his lips. They stood still and listened.

“That treatment is experimental,” Maester Colbat said, his voice agitated. “There’s no reason to put a healthy man such as yourself at risk.”

“No reason?” Ser Allard sounded outraged. “If it allows me to see my brother that is all the reason I need!”

“You must allow me to give the treatment to the other poor souls who are suffering, first. Once the treatment has been shown to work on those who are ill, I may attempt to give it to a few healthy men to see if it works preventatively. But I would not test it on you, ser. One of the fishermen will do very well. Who will protect the queen and the princess if you fall ill?”

Sansa’s stomach squirmed. _Are the lives of fishermen so much less valuable?_ She had spoken to the fisherman who had given his cottage up for Maric. His name was Darron, and his wife’s name was Miranna. They had two sweet little children. One was still a babe in arms. A sharp pain pierced her heart, and Sansa hurriedly pushed the thought of babies aside.

“Test it on a fisherman?” Ser Allard spat. “How long will that take, pray?”

“Ideally, I’d want to test it on a few fishermen. Possibly women and children, too,” Maester Colbat said. “But first, as I said, I would treat those who are already ill. We’ve lost one of the villagers already, there’s no time to waste. This plague is spreading too fast.”

Sansa felt as if she’d been struck. She had not known that one of the villagers had died.

“I demand that you treat me with it now,” Ser Allard shouted. “My father is Hand of the King!”

Without thinking it through, Sansa hurried up the last few steps and walked right into the chamber where Ser Allard and Maester Colbat were arguing. “Do as he says,” she said, meeting Maester Colbat’s eyes. “As your queen, I command it.” 

Maester Colbat’s mouth had dropped open at her sudden entrance, but his lips thinned now. “Your Grace -”

“There is no reason why we cannot test the treatment on Ser Allard and treat the sick villagers at the same time. If the villagers are already dying I would argue we must find out as soon as possible whether this treatment can prevent healthy people from catching the plague,” she said, cutting Maester Colbat off and breathing as if she’d just run up all the tower steps in a rush. “And furthermore, if you wish to test the treatment on a healthy woman, you may test it on me. Children will be left out of this until the treatment is proven to be safe.”

“I’d offer to let you test it on me too,” Ser Gerald drawled from the doorway, “but I suppose there should be one uncompromised knight of the Kingsguard about the place.”

“I cannot - my queen - you can’t, the risk -” Maester Colbat spluttered, looking from her to Ser Allard and back, his brow heavily furrowed.

“We will begin with Ser Allard,” Sansa said as calmly as she could. “Ser, you understand the risk, do you not?”

“I do,” Ser Allard immediately said, taking a step closer.

Maester Colbat looked at the ceiling for a moment and sighed. “Very well, very well.”

***

The month that followed Maric’s recovery was a stressful one. While Ella’s potion, combined with Maester Colbat’s trick with the needle, worked just the same for the sick villagers and Ser Allard as it did for Maric, the plague was still spreading terrifyingly fast. In the end Lord Selwyn was forced to issue an order for the villagers to remain in their houses with their doors barred, and not to go outside for any reason. After that, Maester Colbat was able to get ahead of the spread, and soon there were more people recovering than falling ill. There had still been several deaths, however - usually in cases where Maester Colbat had not reached a plague-ridden household in time - and the castle’s inhabitants lived in fear of the plague cropping up among them.

Once Maester Colbat was not busy trying to keep the entire village from succumbing to the plague, Sansa insisted that it was time for her to be given the treatment, despite his loud protests.

“The treatment works preventatively, and it is safe. We have seen it. Ser Allard has been in the village every day, and he has not fallen ill.”

Maester Colbat scowled at her. “Have I missed something? Have you gone to the Citadel and forged a chain while I have been working to keep the villagers alive, Your Grace?”

“No,” she said, frowning. “But if we are to allow the villagers to leave their houses at some point, it is clear that we must treat everyone in Tarth with both potion and needle. Everyone.” _It is the only just course of action._

“Yes, perhaps,” Maester Colbat said reluctantly. “But I don’t see why you have to be next in line, my queen. One of the fishermen’s wives -”

“If I do not trust the treatment,” Sansa said firmly, “how can I expect my subjects to trust it? I must lead by example, Maester Colbat.”

He gave in to her wishes in the end.

The small patch of greyscale on her arm was unsightly, but Sansa did not care. Not even when Jeyne turned faintly green and said it was _horrid._ It was a small price to pay. Besides, Jeyne was turning green at the slightest little thing these days. Carellen was sure she’d eaten something spoiled.

Sansa’s good example did not prove to be as inspiring as she had hoped, however. Even the King’s Landing retenue was sceptical and reluctant, and most of them grumbled as they trudged off to see the maester for the treatment. Thankfully, Lord Selwyn agreed with Sansa that the treatment should be given to everyone, and encouraged his men to accept it. Lady Brienne was among the first to volunteer after that, and once the men of the castle saw that she was not afraid, they rushed to prove that they were no less courageous.

Steadily, Maester Colbat worked with Shireen to give every man, woman, and child of Tarth the immunity. It took a long time, as Maester Colbat refused to prick Shireen’s skin above a certain number of times per day, even though she insisted she was fine. (“Honestly, it doesn’t even hurt.”)

A few people came down with a mild fever after taking the treatment, but none fell truly ill. Two people did not develop the small patch of greyscale on their arm after being pricked - not even if they were pricked again - and though Maester Colbat found this to be concerning, he decided there was nothing to be done about it.

Sansa was still deeply concerned for Stannis and the realm as a whole, and worried by the lack of further news from King’s Landing, but she could not help but feel uplifted by the industrious atmosphere created by the greyscale treatment project, and found that while she kept herself busy helping Maester Colbat and Shireen, she did not dwell as much on what must be happening in the besieged city, or on dragons, the Others, or on her failure to conceive an heir on her wedding night.

***

“Come now,” Ser Gerald said, grinning at Brienne and waggling his eyebrows, “don’t tell me you’ve never at least thought about it. There’s no dishonour in _thinking._ I’ve thought about doing it with you.”

“I was under the impression that knights of the Kingsguard were celibate,” Brienne said through gritted teeth.

The two of them were both sweaty, their armour streaked with mud as if they’d been having a very spirited sparring match.

“Well, yes,” Ser Gerald said, nodding. “But I haven’t always been a knight of the Kingsguard, have I?” He leaned a little closer to Brienne. “And I’d break my vows in a heartbeat if you were up for it.”

“Shut up,” Brienne said, blotchy flush in full force, jaw clenched.

Sansa had only just arrived on the near-empty training field. She was meant to go to the village with Maester Colbat and Shireen soon, and she wanted Ser Gerald to come along. “Ser Gerald,” she said sharply, “I hope you’re being polite to Lady Brienne.”

“I’m always polite, my queen,” Ser Gerald said, still grinning shamelessly.

Sansa put her hands on her hips. “Why was she asking you to be quiet, then?”

“No idea.” His eyes were sparkling with amusement.

Brienne bared her teeth, but said nothing to contradict him.

“Very well,” Sansa said, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Please go and get cleaned up. I wish for you to accompany me to the village.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Gerald said, his eyes still laughing.

Sansa waited in silence until Ser Gerald was gone, watching Brienne’s flush fade slowly from her face. She was in her blue armour, tall and strong as always, but her expression was bitter.

“Please allow me to apologise on Ser Gerald’s behalf,” Sansa said, approaching Brienne so she would not have to speak as loudly to be heard. “I don’t believe he’s in the habit of thinking before he speaks.”

“His mocking is nothing I’m not used to, Your Grace,” Brienne said, staring at the ground. “And I can knock him on his arse if he bothers me overmuch.”

Sansa gave a small smile though she was saddened by the resignation in Brienne’s voice. “I know. You are as fine a warrior as I’ve ever seen. My great-uncle is the master-at-arms at the Red Keep, and I’m certain he’d say the same.”

Brienne looked up quickly, and then back at the ground, her stance relaxing by a margin.

Hesitating for only a moment, Sansa made a quick decision. “We haven’t had a chance to talk very much, just the two of us,” she said, keeping her voice friendly. “Would you like to join me for tea when I come back from the village?”

“I - “ Brienne floundered for a moment, her large blue eyes widening. “I will join you if you wish it, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Sansa said, smiling. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The trip to the village went well, though they had a disagreement with a mother of three children who did not understand why they could not give the treatment to her youngest. “The babe has not been weaned, dear woman,” Maester Colbat said patiently. “And as a rule I do not give potions to babies until they have been weaned.”

As they followed the winding path back to Evenfall Hall, having successfully given Shireen’s immunity to the last few households in the village that had yet to receive it, Sansa fell behind in order to have a private word with Ser Gerald.

“Must you mock Lady Brienne, ser?” she asked without much preamble, doing nothing to disguise her disappointment in him. “It’s most unkind. A true knight would not speak to a lady in such a way.”

“Who says I mock her?” Ser Gerald answered, raising a brow.

“She does,” Sansa said, frowning.

“She misunderstands,” Ser Gerald said lightly. “It has never been my intent to mock her. Indeed, I admire her.” 

“You do?” Sansa was not certain she believed him.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Ser Gerald said. “There aren’t many people who can defeat me on the training field.”

“Compliment her skills then, and be done. Do not tease her by speaking of breaking your vows.”

At this, Ser Gerald’s expression became a little chagrined. “Ah. You heard that?”

Sansa fixed him with a severe look that she hoped would answer his question. “Will you promise to treat her with more respect from now on, ser?”

Ser Gerald sighed, giving her a sidelong glance. “It’s just a bit of flirting, Your Grace. I mean no disrespect by it.”

Despite her efforts, a blush was climbing to her cheeks. _He really means to flirt with her?_ She had never known Ser Gerald to be deliberately cruel, but Brienne was... she was not the sort of lady Sansa thought most men would want to flirt with. It seemed much more likely that Brienne had the right of it. That he did it to mock her.

“Oho,” Ser Gerald said, his face lighting up. “You think she’s too ugly for a man to wish to flirt with her!”

Her face was burning now. “No.”

“The King’s Good Bride, judging a lady wanting,” Ser Gerald shook his head with a smile, making tutting noises. “What would the singers say if they found out? Perhaps they’d write a new song? The King’s Cruel Bride?”

The temptation to do what Brienne had done, and shout at him to shut up was growing hard to resist. She took a deep breath. “Ser,” she said, glaring at him, “kindly do not put words in my mouth.”

He laughed. “You know, there are much uglier men in the world that do very well for themselves, attracting all manner of attention. Compared to some of them, Lady Brienne is a vision of beauty.”

Sansa blinked. “But that’s different. They’re - they’re men.”

“Is it really that different?” Ser Gerald asked, his expression becoming earnest. He held her gaze for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t think it is.”

She did not know what to say to that.

Once they had returned to the castle, Sansa wanted to hurry to her chambers so that she could make the arrangements for her tea with Brienne, but Maester Colbat took her aside for a private word. “I have something for your friend, Lady Jeyne Seaworth,” he said quietly, searching his pockets. Much like Maester Luwin, he had a multitude of them hidden away in his robes, each one containing mysterious and intriguing things. “Here we are,” he said, producing a small flask. “A tonic to settle her mother’s stomach.” He gave a fatherly smile and tapped the side of his nose.

Sansa’s hand closed around the flask, but the rest of her seemed to have frozen still. _Mother’s stomach?_ “I will see that she gets it,” she said faintly. _Why has she not told me?_

When she was finally able to move, she walked in the direction of her chambers in a confused haze, barely aware of her surroundings. She did note that Ser Gerald was following her, but since their conversation on the road to the castle, he had been keeping uncharacteristically quiet. She was grateful for it now.

_Have I been such a poor friend to Jeyne of late that she would not confide such a thing in me?_

True, she had been very occupied with the maester and Shireen, and had not spent as much time with Jeyne and the other ladies as she might have liked. But they still saw each other every day. She stared at the flask in her hand, wondering whether she should track Jeyne down right away to give her the tonic. Congratulate her. Her stomach turned upside down at the thought.

“Lady Brienne!” Ser Gerald suddenly exclaimed, his voice genuinely pleased. 

Sansa’s eyes snapped from the flask in her hand to the corridor in front of her. They had nearly reached the door to her chambers, and Brienne was standing in front of it, looking uncertain and awkward.

“My queen,” Brienne said, bowing like a man rather than curtseying. As she was currently wearing a gown it looked quite odd. “Ser,” she added, though she did not meet Ser Gerald’s eyes.

“Have you come for tea?” Sansa asked, hiding the flask behind her back and doing her best to sound bright.

“I - I apologise for being early -”

“Nonsense. Please, let us go inside.” She made sure to close the door before Ser Gerald got any ideas about joining them. The last thing she saw before the door clicked shut was his exaggeratedly crestfallen expression.

Sansa convinced Brienne to have a seat while she bustled about and summoned a servant to fetch them tea. Once she had put her cloak away and stowed Jeyne’s tonic safely in a drawer, she joined Brienne and tried to put all thoughts of Jeyne’s _mother’s stomach_ from her mind.

She tried to begin with the usual pleasantries about the weather and Lord Selwyn’s health, but Brienne did not seem at all comfortable with Sansa’s courtesies, so she soon gave it up.

“I’m so glad you could join me today,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to thank you for being brave enough to volunteer for Princess Shireen’s treatment. I know your father’s men would not have taken it as readily as they did if you had not.”

Brienne ducked her head. “It was nothing, Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“Have you been well since you received it?”

“Yes, quite well.”

A servant arrived with refreshments, and for a while they were quiet as they helped themselves to honey cakes and hot black tea.

“Has the maester developed some new potion?” Brienne asked. “I saw you carry a flask with you earlier. I’d be happy to try it if you need me to.”

“Oh.” Sansa put her little plate down, suddenly not in the mood for honey cake. “No, that was - that wasn’t -” She clasped her hands together in her lap and took a deep breath against the bitter emotion that was climbing to her throat.

Brienne’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’m sorry. I’ve said something wrong, please forgive me, I’m so stupid -”

“Not at all,” Sansa said quickly, cutting Brienne off. “It was only a tonic for Jeyne.” She took another deep breath. _I suppose I must get used to discussing this._ “She is with child and suffers from a mother’s stomach.” Sansa closed her eyes, unprepared for the wave of grief and molten jealousy that accompanied her words. 

_Why could the Mother not have blessed me too?_

“I see,” Brienne said, her guileless eyes large with confusion. “Are you well, Your Grace?”

“I am,” Sansa said, taking a few more deep breaths and doing her best to suppress the storm of emotion within her. “You should know I’ve spoken to Ser Gerald,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. “I’ve asked him to be more respectful of you.”

Brienne looked taken aback. “You needn’t have done that,” she said, addressing her cup of tea. “He is a knight of the Kingsguard.”

“Knight or no, you should not have to put up with mockery from anyone,” Sansa said firmly. “He insists that his intent has not been to mock you, but I hope he will not make himself a nuisance in the future.”

Brienne’s face had pinkened, and she was still staring at her cup. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve dealt with worse than him.”

Sansa frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Brienne muttered, stuffing a large piece of honey cake into her mouth.

“Please,” Sansa said, forgetting her own worries in the face of this mystery. “If you have been hurt -”

“As if any of them could best me,” Brienne said angrily, swallowing her cake and washing it down with a gulp of tea. “May the Others take them all.”

Sensing that she should wait in silence rather than press Brienne for more, Sansa was soon rewarded for her patience.

“Big Ben Bushy was the first,” Brienne began, her mouth set in a bitter line, her eyes full of past hurts. She went on to explain how Ben, Ser Edmund Ambrose, Ser Hyle Hunt, Ser Richard Farrow, Ser Hugh Beesbury, Ser Mark Mullendore, and a hedge knight called Will the Stork all tried to charm her, flirt with her, and ply her with gifts. “Until Ser Owen Inchfield tried - and _failed_ \- to force a kiss on me, I did not know why they were doing it.” Brienne had long since emptied her cup, but she was still clutching it in her hands, staring into it. “Turns out they had a wager,” she whispered. “Each man bought into it with a golden dragon, and the one who managed to claim my maidenhead would win the lot.”

Sansa covered her mouth with a hand, horrorstruck. _How could they be so cruel?_ “I’m so sorry, Brienne,” she said, a deep sadness weighing on her heart. It was the same sadness she first felt long ago, when Sandor Clegane had told her his story. She reached out to touch one of Brienne’s hands. “They were no true knights.” 

Brienne’s grip on her teacup loosened, and she looked up to meet Sansa’s eyes, her expression wary. “Do you not think it amusing?”

Shocked, Sansa retracted her hand and sat up straight. “Of course not.”

“Beautiful ladies like you like to laugh behind my back,” Brienne said, the pain in her eyes heartbreaking. “I’m sure every man who has ever sought _your_ favour has truly wanted it.”

Sansa thought of Willas Tyrell and pressed her lips tightly together. That wound had healed, but she still remembered the hurt of it. “That’s not true. Besides, beauty is fleeting.” She thought of the conversation she had overheard, hidden in the king’s solar, when Stannis had said those very words to Lord Davos. The memory was a sweet sorrow, and she closed her eyes for a moment before going on. “Your good heart can never be taken from you. Nor will it fade away in time.”

“It is easy to say such things when one has both.” Brienne exhaled loudly and rubbed at her face. “Please, I hope you know I mean no offense, Your Grace. You and your lady mother have only ever been kind to me.”

“I am not offended,” Sansa assured her.

Brienne looked relieved. She dropped her hands from her face and looked Sansa in the eyes. “I have made my peace with being a failure as a lady. I will not marry and give my father grandchildren. I do not know how to smile and charm. But I am a strong, able fighter, and I would do my part in the war that is upon us. I would swear my sword to you, my queen.”

“And I would gladly accept your oath, Brienne of Tarth,” Sansa said, ignoring the fresh surge of searing pain that Brienne’s mention of children called forth. _Must I make peace with being a failure as a lady, too?_

Brienne smiled, her eyes lighting up and her face brimming with joy. It was a beautiful sight, and Sansa’s pain faded as she returned Brienne’s smile, her heart filling with hope instead. 

_I see no failure here._


	24. The Straits of Tarth

“Is the tonic not helping?” Sansa asked, examining Jeyne’s appearance with concern. She was pale, and there were dark half-moons beneath her eyes.

Jeyne got to her feet with a small grimace. She had been kneeling before the Mother’s altar.

Evenfall Hall’s small sept was a quiet, beautiful place. The statues of the Seven were well made and lifelike - though they were not carved from anything so precious as marble - and there were crystals in the windows that scattered rainbows everywhere when it was bright enough. At the moment there were no rainbows. It was still early in the morning, and the sun was slow to rise.

“It is,” Jeyne said, giving Sansa a small smile. “I’ve been able to keep my food down since I started taking it.”

“That’s good,” Sansa said, nodding. “My lady mother always said it’s important to eat well when a baby is growing. You will need your strength.”

“I know,” Jeyne said. Her attention drifted from Sansa and back to the statue before them. The Mother had been given a kind, loving expression; a marked contrast to Jeyne’s forlorn one. “I didn’t expect it to feel this way.”

Sansa walked over to the nearest wooden bench and sat down. Jeyne followed her example. “How does it feel?” she asked quietly. Something in her chest tightened as she waited for Jeyne’s response, but she did not think it was envy. Her jealousy had faded after Jeyne told her that she had not intended to keep her condition a secret from Sansa; Jeyne had only just found out she was pregnant when Maester Colbat had given Sansa the tonic, and had been planning to tell Sansa about it that very same day. Sansa still had the occasional pang of grief for the hope she had lost of being pregnant herself, but she was determined that Jeyne’s blessing was to be celebrated. _I will not let it make me bitter._

“I’m just… tired,” Jeyne said, her eyes suddenly wet with unshed tears. “And I wish Devan were here. I thought he would be with me.”

Her chest constricting further, Sansa put an arm around Jeyne and pulled her close. “I’m sure we will receive word from King’s Landing soon.” Nearly two months had gone by since Maric’s arrival, and they had barely had a scrap of reliable news since. They knew that both Dorne and the stormlands were in the grip of the worst outbreak of the grey plague that Westeros had seen, and that King’s Landing was still besieged. Additionally, there were rumours about Daenerys Targaryen using her dragons to burn granaries in the crownlands, which had shocked Lord Selwyn. (“Who burns food in the depth of winter? Madness.”) 

The uncertainty was wearing on them all.

“I want to go home,” Jeyne said, hiding her face against Sansa’s neck.

Sansa hummed sympathetically and rubbed circles against Jeyne’s back, wondering which home Jeyne was referring to. _King’s Landing? Or Winterfell?_

A loud slamming noise startled Sansa, and she whipped her head around to look at the sept door. It was open, and Ser Gerald was walking quickly towards her and Jeyne, his boots slapping loudly against the stone floor.

“Your Grace,” he said, his expression serious. Sansa’s heart immediately started to race. “You must come with me. This day has dawned with ships on the horizon.”

She stopped breathing for a moment. “Greyjoy?”

Ser Gerald nodded, his jaw set. Jeyne made a small noise of fright. “And a fleet of ships flying Redwyne colours. A battle is already in progress. I must take you both to safety.”

Sansa nodded and pulled herself to her feet, tugging Jeyne up with her. “Lead the way, ser.”

Safety, as it turned out, was simply the great hall. The women and children of the castle - both highborn and low - had been gathered there, with guards at every door. Sansa was relieved to see Shireen, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa already present and standing near Ser Allard, and Ella and her other maids huddled together not far from them. But there was one lady Sansa could not see.

“Ser Gerald, have you seen Lady Brienne?”

“She is up on the battlements,” Ser Gerald told her. “I intend to join her, if Your Grace does not object?”

“Ser Allard will stay with us,” Sansa said, glancing briefly at Shireen and the others. “You will let us know if any of the ships approach the island?”

He nodded, and was gone.

The long hours that followed were not easy. Sansa made sure that food was brought to the hall, and she and Shireen walked between the groups of frightened women to speak to them, pray with them, or sing hymns. Alynna, Jeyne, Carellen and Marissa had harps and bells brought to them, and played soothing melodies to calm the crying children. But they were all on edge, wondering what was happening in the Straits of Tarth.

Sansa was in the middle of singing the Mother’s hymn when they heard it. A noise like a thunderclap, and then a piercing, shrieking, unearthly sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“What was that?” Jeyne asked. She had been singing with Sansa, but she - and every other woman near them - had fallen silent at the frightening sounds.

“A scream?” Sansa suggested in a low voice.

They heard it again, louder this time. Blood-curdling. Unlike any noise produced by a human or animal Sansa had ever known.

The silence in the great hall gave way to frightened whispers, and a few children began to cry. Pale faces turned towards Sansa with questions in their eyes.

“Be calm, the castle is well protected,” Sansa said, raising her voice. She shot Alynna a meaningful look, and Alynna immediately began to play her harp. Marissa joined in, and Carellen soon after. They played well, and soon the women in the hall had settled down.

“I think that was a dragon,” Shireen said, whispering in Sansa’s ear and giving her a wide-eyed look.

Sansa nodded once, swallowing. “I’m going to go to the battlements to see what is happening. If there are dragons, we may want to move everyone to the cellars.”

“Be careful,” Shireen said, her voice full of worry. “I’ll try to keep everyone calm.”

Ser Allard was not best pleased with Sansa’s plan to leave the great hall. He made her promise to return as quickly as she could, and sent a gold cloak along to guard her.

The climb to the battlements was tense. The higher she climbed, the more noise she heard; the wind and the sea, and men shouting. When she finally made it outside, she gasped in the face of the icy wind. The wind tore at her hair and her gown, a fine mist of rain - or was it the salty spray of the sea? - dampened her skin, and she was already shivering. Far below, the waters of the Straits of Tarth were churning, and there were ships everywhere, too many to count, clearly engaged in a naval battle the likes of which Sansa had never even thought to imagine.

“Your Grace!” someone yelled, running at her. It was Ser Gerald. His eyes were wide with concern. _Or fear?_ Her heart missed a beat. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I heard -”

The same blood-curdling scream Sansa had heard in the great hall rent the air again, but this time it was so loud that she closed her eyes and covered her ears. When the noise stopped, she immediately dropped her hands and stared up at the grey, cloudy sky, searching.

 _There._ It was unmistakably a dragon. Gigantic even from afar, with jet black wings that had to span at least twenty feet from tip to tip. Its neck was long, and its head was monstrous. Atop it there was a tiny figure; a speck of silver among black scales. _Daenerys Targaryen?_

“You should not be out here,” Ser Gerald said, his nostrils flaring.

Sansa looked at the men on the battlements, most of them armed with bows and arrows, but she could see two of Evenfall Hall’s many scorpions from where she was standing. Brienne stood behind one, imposing in her shining blue armour, her eyes on the dragon. None of the men were firing, but she could see the mixture of worry and determination in their eyes. If the battle came to their shores, they would be ready.

“Has the dragon threatened the castle?” she asked, looking back at Ser Gerald. “Should I have the women and children moved?”

He shook his head. “She circles the ships,” he said, speaking loudly in order to be heard over the wind. “That’s her work, there.” He pointed at a charred wreck that was in the process of sinking. “Victarion must have herded the Redwyne fleet into Shipbreaker Bay intentionally. The Redwyne ships tried to escape into the Straits, but you can see Victarion has more ships over there, cutting off their avenue of escape. They’re trapped. And now the dragon is picking them off, one by one.”

As they spoke, Sansa saw the dragon fly low over another Redwyne ship, and release a breath of flame that brightened the grey sky for a moment. The ship’s masts and sails caught fire, and smoke rose up only to be snatched away by the wind as fast as it appeared.

The dragon snapped its wings and climbed up high, the sound of a thunderclap filling the air as it did. It flew in a wide circle, nearing Tarth before it dove back towards the ships, breathing still more fire.

“You must go back inside,” Ser Gerald said.

But Sansa was transfixed. Again the dragon circled, and Sansa wanted to see it closer, just once more. It was terrible and monstrous, but magical too. The little hairs of her body all stood on end, and she shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. The dragon was as close as it seemed it would get now, already turning to dive towards the battle once again.

A wooden groan, and a piercing, whistling sound caught Sansa’s attention and she whipped her head around to look. Brienne had let loose the great scorpion, and the arrow was flying true. It all happened so fast. Having turned to look at Brienne, she missed seeing the arrow hit its target, but it was clear that it had. It had pierced one of the dragon’s shoulders, and the monster was plummeting towards the sea, shrieking unholy murder as it did.

“Go! Now!” Ser Gerald shouted.

Sansa walked slowly towards the stairs, still staring at the dragon. He had caught himself at the last minute, avoiding the water, and was now flying limply towards a large rock that jutted out from the sea.

Her guard was tugging on her arm now, forcing her inside. “Come along, Your Grace,” he muttered. “We’d best get you back to the great hall.”

***

After Sansa was forced to leave the battlements, Daenerys Targaryen managed to land her dragon on a jagged rock, remove Brienne’s arrow from his shoulder, and fly away to safety. The Greyjoy fleet could not be made to retreat so easily, however, and the battle raged on for the rest of the day. The odds were closer to being even without the dragon in play, but Victarion’s men were ruthless, and had the Redwyne fleet trapped.

In the end, only a quarter of the Redwyne ships were able to retreat closer to the waters near Evenfall Hall, where the castle’s scorpions could cover them. Ser Gerald boasted that he had hit four different Greyjoy ships with flaming arrows, but Brienne had shaken her head behind his back when he had told Sansa this, and held up two fingers.

The other three quarters of the fleet was either wrecked or taken by Greyjoy men. 

It was a terrible loss.

“We would have lost every last ship if your men hadn’t wounded that dragon,” Lord Paxter Redwyne said, nodding to Lord Selwyn. Lord Redwyne was a thin man with barely any hair, and his posture was stooped and defeated. “Though I don’t know what use my remaining ships will be to the king. We are trapped here.”

“For now,” Lord Selwyn said gravely.

Sansa was sitting at a table with the two lords, while Lady Brienne, Ser Gerald, and two other men Lord Redwyne had brought with him stood guard. They were in a small meeting room made comfortable by a roaring fire in the hearth, and brightly coloured tapestries on the walls. It was nearing midnight, and though Lord Rewyne had bathed before joining them, the day’s battle was still clinging to him. Sansa could see it in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you think will change,” Lord Redwyne said tersely. “Greyjoy won’t have gone far. His fleet will be waiting if we try to sail for King’s Landing. And if we try to transport our men and supplies overland, the Unsullied that surround the city will be ready to give us a warm welcome. If we even make it that far. I hear the Targaryen girl has taken to burning granaries in the crownlands. She could just as easily burn a supply train on the kingsroad. That is of course if we don’t succumb to the grey plague, first.” He made a disgusted sound, leaning back in his seat and throwing his hands up.

_Unsullied? What does he mean by that?_

“True,” Lord Selwyn said, staring into the hearth for a moment before turning to look at Lord Redwyne. “But there is nothing to be done about that now. Your men must rest and recover their strength.”

“You expect us to rest here?” Lord Redwyne’s tone was almost offended. “With the grey plague running rampant?”

“You will find that Tarth is free of any plague,” Sansa said steadily, meeting Lord Redwyne’s eyes.

Lord Redwyne went rigid in his seat as she spoke, almost as if bracing himself for her to strike him. He did not relax until she fell silent. “How fortunate,” he said, looking away from her as quickly as he politely could.

“Indeed, Her Grace speaks true,” Lord Selwyn said. “I can summon my maester to confirm it if you wish.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. What would you gain by lying?” He huffed and shook his head. “Though I am curious to know how you’ve escaped the plague.”

“I would be happy to tell you, my lord,” Sansa said, noting how he tensed up again as soon as he heard her voice.

“Another time, Your Grace,” he said quickly. Giving her a tight smile before turning to look at Lord Selwyn once more.

Lord Selwyn raised his brows at her, but did not comment on Lord Redwyne’s strange behaviour otherwise. “Well, then. As I said, your men are welcome to recover their strength here at Evenfall Hall, Lord Redwyne.”

Lord Redwyne nodded jerkily. “I thank you, my lord.” His jaw tightened. “They will not be a heavy burden. Greyjoy captured or sank most of the warships carrying men-at-arms. I’m afraid what remains is mostly supplies.”

“If Daenerys Targaryen has truly been burning food stores, supplies may soon be more valuable to King Stannis than men-at-arms,” Lord Selwyn said, his tone foreboding.

***

Over the next several days, it became clear that Paxter Redwyne did not quite seem to know what to make of Sansa. He was courteous for the most part, but kept tensing up whenever she spoke to him, his demeanour wary.

“I don’t understand it,” Sansa said to Jeyne. They were walking to the sept, their pace slow and ponderous. “It’s as if he expects me to start shouting at him at any moment, and yet I have been nothing but kind.”

“That would be because the king likes him almost as much as he does Lord Tyrell,” Ser Gerald said with a snort. “It was Lord Paxter Redwyne’s fleet that made sure Stannis could not resupply by sea during the Siege of Storm’s End.”

“Until Davos smuggled his way through,” Jeyne said, lifting her chin proudly.

Ser Gerald inclined his head. “Until then.”

Sansa frowned. “But that was years and years ago.”

“King Stannis isn’t exactly known for his generous, forgiving nature, now is he?”

“‘I am not Stannis,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “Besides, Lord Redwyne was on his way to help Stannis, was he not? Why would he expect me to treat him with anything but courtesy?”

Ser Gerald just shrugged.

“Perhaps he thinks King Stannis will have poisoned you against him?” Jeyne suggested.

Sansa shook her head again, sighing. “They’re supposed to be allies.”

“Allies or not, they’ll never be bosom friends,” Ser Gerald said. “But Lord Redwyne loathes the Iron Islanders, so you needn’t worry about him crossing over to Daenerys’s side, at least.”

“Speaking of Daenerys’s side,” Sansa said, suddenly remembering something she’d wanted to ask him. “Lord Redwyne mentioned that she had ‘Unsullied’ surrounding King’s Landing. Do you know what he meant by it?”

“The Unsullied are slave soldiers from Astapor,” Ser Gerald said with a grimace. “I’ve heard of them. Their training is unlike anything I’ve ever heard of. I heard this story once about how they’re given a puppy and made to - “ He cut himself off, glancing at Sansa and Jeyne. “It’s not something I would discuss in front of ladies. But they’re known for their unwavering obedience, and their skill on the battlefield.”

Ser Gerald’s mention of a puppy caused a sharp sting in Sansa’s chest. _Their training must be very terrible if Ser Gerald cannot bring himself to shock us with the stories._

“I think Devan said something about them once,” Jeyne said, brightening. “What was it again?” She frowned for a moment. “Oh, I remember. He said they’re all eunuchs.” She scrunched her nose up in disgust.

Ser Gerald nodded, his eyes lightening with amusement as he observed her expression. He gave a small laugh, badly disguised as a cough. 

Sansa gave him a disapproving look. “But I thought she had an army of Dothraki screamers?” She did not recall Dale saying anything about Unsullied soldiers when he had described what he had seen on Dragonstone.

“She’ll be keeping them in reserve,” Ser Gerald said knowingly, still looking somewhat amused. “The Dothraki are not exactly renowned for their siege tactics, are they?”

Jeyne giggled nervously.

They reached the sept, and Ser Gerald fell behind, lingering by the door to allow Sansa and Jeyne to pray in privacy.

“Do you think Lord Redwyne might have joined Daenerys if she weren’t working with Victarion Greyjoy?” Jeyne wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, suddenly very tired. “I hope not.”

“Stannis ought to have a tourney when all of this fighting is done,” Jeyne said, lighting a candle at the Mother’s altar. “And feast the lords he’s had arguments with in the past.”

Sansa smiled inwardly, imagining what Stannis would say if he heard Jeyne describe the Siege of Storm’s End as an ‘argument’. “Yes, perhaps,” Sansa said, lighting the candle beside Jeyne’s lit one.

“And then I’m sure they would all feel better,” Jeyne went on, nodding to herself.

Sansa wasn’t certain it would be that easy, but by the time they had finished saying their prayers, she had decided that she would at least take what she hoped would be a small step in the right direction, and invite Lord Redwyne to dine with her.

***

With Lord Selwyn’s permission, and Shireen’s eager help, Sansa was quickly able to plan a small dinner for Lord Redwyne and his most trusted captains. He had been reluctant to accept her invitation at first, but Sansa made it clear that she wished them all to lift a toast together; to honour the fallen and celebrate the lives that they had managed to save, and he could not refuse after that. Shireen, Lord Selwyn, and Lady Brienne were of course included on the guest list, and as Lord Redwyne only had men with him, Sansa decided to invite Jeyne, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa as well.

_They will be less inclined to speak of war and unpleasant things with young ladies present._

Sansa wore her cloth-of-gold gown, but she and Shireen both decided not to wear tiaras. They did not want the dinner to feel too stuffy and formal. The idea was to get Lord Redwyne and his men to relax and enjoy themselves.

With Lord Redwyne seated on her right side, Sansa was determined that they should finally speak to one another. Properly. But since they had taken their seats, Lord Redwyne had mostly made do with drinking liberal amounts of the Arbor wine he had brought as a gift, and casting occasional, furtive glances her way, his eyes lingering on her gown.

Sansa attempted to start a conversation a few times as the first two courses were served - hearty vegetable soup, and lamprey pie - but Lord Redwyne was almost as good as Stannis at giving monosyllabic answers that stifled fledgling conversations before they took flight.

“My lord,” she said when she next caught him glancing at her, refusing to give up. “I believe I have had the good fortune to meet your lady wife’s mother in King’s Landing not very long ago. I hope she is still in good health?”

“Lady Olenna?” Lord Redwyne snorted. “Yes, yes, her health is fine. She will live forever, the old bag.”

“She is fortunate to be of such stout stock,” Sansa said, smiling. “I can only hope her granddaughter, my brother’s bride, will enjoy such a long life.”

Some of the tension in Lord Redwyne’s shoulders drained away. “Have you any news of Lady Margaery, Your Grace?”

“It has been nearly four months since I have heard anything from my family in the north,” Sansa said, closing her eyes briefly against the ache of loss that accompanied the words. “But in my mother’s last letter she said Lady Margaery was blossoming, and growing to love Winterfell almost as much as she loves my dear brother.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lord Redwyne said, nodding.

“Of course you are; Lady Margaery is all that is beautiful and sweet,” Sansa said, smiling at him with understanding. “I’m sure she must be much beloved by yourself and all the rest of the family.”

“Indeed she is,” Lord Redwyne said, giving her a small, hesitant smile back.

“She was so very gracious and kind to me and my friends while we were both staying in the city,” Sansa went on. “I believe she invited me and Lady Jeyne Seaworth to go hawking with her almost as soon as we had become reacquainted.” She continued to smile widely, and described a few of her adventures with Margaery as joyfully as she could. 

By the third course - little fish rolled in salt and flour and fried crisp - Lord Redwyne had started to tell her stories in return - boyhood adventures and daring deeds at sea - and he hardly looked tense at all.

Over the fourth course - lamb served with a gravy of ale and onion - Sansa lowered her voice and made her voice as meaningful as she could. “It really has put me at ease to meet you,” she said, meeting his eyes. “House Tyrell and House Redwyne seems to me to be full of kind, heroic people. I believe my husband made a wise choice when he decided that our heir’s future queen should be a Tyrell.”

“Indeed,” Lord Redwyne said, his eyes brightening.

By the fifth course - stuffed duck - Lord Redwyne asked her to call him Paxter. “We are practically family, after all.”

Sansa could see that the other ladies were doing well with Lord Paxter’s captains. Everyone was smiling, filling up with the hearty food, and enjoying the generous supply of Arbor wine. Even Brienne seemed to be enjoying herself; Marissa had told the captain sitting between her and Brienne that Brienne had been the one who shot the dragon down, and it seemed that Brienne had been persuaded to tell the story.

As they ate their dessert - pastries and cream swans - Alynna and Carellen suggested they should have music, and applied to Sansa to sing, offering to play the harp and the bells to accompany her voice. Sansa objected at first, but eventually gave in.

She chose to sing _My Featherbed,_ as it wasn’t too long or sad. The dinner guests went quiet as she rose to perform, and all eyes turned to observe her. Her heart quickened its pace, and her stomach fluttered, but once Alynna strummed her harp and the music began to flow through her, she simply closed her eyes and sang. 

“ _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down …_ ”

Her voice was soft at first, but gained strength as the song went on, and she held the final note with confidence, her blood singing in her veins along with her.

“ _I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass. But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._ ”

The small audience applauded, Lord Paxter loudest of all, and she curtseyed with a blush before turning to applaud Alynna and Carellen.

When she turned back around, she could see that the door of the dining room was open, and Maester Colbat was standing in the doorway, clutching a roll of paper.

“My lord,” he said, looking at Lord Selwyn. “Your Grace.” He turned to her. “A raven has come from King’s Landing. I would not have interrupted, but I thought it might be urgent.”

 _Gods. A raven? Truly?_ No ravens had arrived from King’s Landing since the siege had started. Maester Colbat believed they were being shot down - if indeed any were being sent to begin with. Which he doubted. (“Grand Maester Gormon would know better.”)

“Give it to Her Grace,” Lord Selwyn said.

As she was already up, Sansa strode over to Maester Colbat, her hands shaking as she accepted the roll. _This must be important, whatever it is._ She hesitated, her fingers at the royal seal, her heart pounding, wondering whether she should excuse herself to read in private. Her insides rebelled at the idea, however. _That would take too long._ She looked at Lord Selwyn. “This bears the royal seal. I believe I should open it at once, my lord.”

She was unfurling the roll almost before he nodded in agreement.

_My queen,_

Sansa blew out a sigh of relief. Stannis had been alive when he had written this letter at least. She knew his hand. “It’s from the king,” she said without looking up from the letter. The dining room became as silent as a tomb, tense excitement vibrating in the air.

_The siege has come to an end. Your lord father sailed to Dragonstone to treat with Daenerys Targaryen, asking for access to the stores of dragonglass the island holds on behalf of the Night’s Watch. He brought a wight with him to explain why they are in need of the dragonglass, and convince her of the threat the realm is facing. She was persuaded, and we have since made a truce. We will all be going north, taking as many men as we can muster with us, along with all the dragonglass we can carry from Dragonstone. We will leave as soon as we are able; the Wall may already have been breached._

_My Lord Hand will rule in my stead while I am gone. You and the princess must stay on Tarth. I’m told the white walkers and their army of the dead cannot swim._

_Your lord father sends his regards. He bid me write that your family is well._

_By my hand,_   
_Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

Her relief at the news that the siege was over was short lived. Fear unlike any fear she had ever experienced paralysed her as she read and re-read her husband’s words. It had been terrible enough to know of Stannis in King’s Landing, suffering through a siege, threatened by dragons. But now he was to go north to fight the Others? With the Wall possibly crumbling? 

It was as if her heart was plummeting through empty air, falling endlessly.

_What if he dies?_

She squeezed her eyes shut. Trying to block the thought from her mind. From existence.

_And if he dies, what hope for my family?_

A cold fist seized her heart, tightening its hold until the pain of it had her clutching her chest. Her whole family was in the north. If the worst came to pass, she would be alone in the world. 

_Am I to be left with nothing? Not even a child of my own?_

She opened her eyes, breathing too quickly. Slowly, doing her best to calm herself down, Sansa looked up from the letter and saw Shireen gazing at her with deep concern. The terrible vice-like grip on her heart loosened. _I will not be alone; I will have Shireen. And she will have me._

“King’s Landing is no longer besieged,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady even as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She looked at Lord Selwyn and Lord Paxter. “The king and Daenerys Targaryen have made a truce, and intend to go to the Wall.”

“Truly?” Lord Selwyn asked, looking stunned.

Sansa nodded. “Yes.” She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and looked at Lord Paxter. “My lord, would you be so kind as to take me to King’s Landing along with all the supplies and men you can spare? I wish to see my husband before he sails north.”


	25. Return

The route to King’s Landing was thankfully free of Greyjoy ships, and though the weather had not exactly been pleasant, the sea had been quiet enough. The journey was almost at an end now, and Sansa was standing at the bow of Lord Paxter’s _Arbor Queen,_ watching the city grow larger with her heart in her throat.

She could see that much of the royal fleet was gone, but there were still several ships at anchor, and among them was the new flagship Dale had been talking of since Sansa had first met him. It was the largest ship Sansa had ever seen; a war galley of six hundred oars, a deck covered with scorpions, and catapults at the fore and aft. The ship’s hull was painted black, but the sails were golden. Once the wind filled them, Sansa was sure the sails would display Stannis’s crowned stag, but in their current wrapped up state, all she could see was the colour. The sight of the ship filled Sansa with hope. _I may not be too late. Stannis may still be here._

Ser Gerald gave a low whistle. “That’s a big one,” he said, sounding amused. “I wonder what it’s called.” He made a thoughtful noise and cast Sansa a sidelong glance. “ _The King’s Sword_?” he suggested with a leer.

Lady Brienne - standing on Sansa’s other side - snorted derisively, while Sansa blushed despite how cold she was. There had been no lack of wind for their sails on the journey, and the brisk breeze tore at her cloak, finding every bit of exposed skin and biting down hard. She shivered, and tried to tell herself it was because of the chill, and not due to stray thoughts about Stannis’s _sword._

“You should concern yourself with your own sword, Ser Gerald,” Brienne said firmly.

This called forth a delighted laugh. “You’re quite right, my lady. Only, I think I need a hand with it. It needs a good cleaning, and perhaps even a polish, and I -”

“Oh, hush,” Brienne said, though her tone only half exasperated. The other half, Sansa was almost sure, was amused. “I see no dragons, Your Grace,” she then said in a more serious tone of voice, her eyes scanning the skies.

“Why would you?” Ser Gerald said. “Daenerys and her beasts will be on Dragonstone if they’re not already on their way to the Wall.”

Sansa was only half listening. She did not care where Daenerys was. She cared about Stannis, and she cared about her father. _Is Father still here? Does he intend to travel north with Stannis?_ Her heart beat harder at the idea of seeing him, her insides warming. Stannis’s letter had said her family was well, but she longed to hear proper news of them.

“Shall I go and tell Princess Shireen that we’ll be reaching the harbour soon?” Brienne asked.

“Yes, please. And could you tell Jeyne if she’s awake? She’ll be so relieved that we’re nearly there,” Sansa said, staring at the harbour and the city walls, wishing that the _Arbor Queen_ would go faster. ‘Soon’ could not come soon enough for her.

When Sansa’s feet were at last on firm, unmoving land once more, it became obvious that Stannis knew nothing of her arrival. Maester Colbat had not approved of the subterfuge, but he had agreed to keep Sansa’s plans secret when he had written to Maester Gormon to announce that Lord Redwyne would be sailing to King’s Landing with the men and supplies that had survived the battle in the Straits of Tarth. _Have Lord Varys’s little birds failed him?_ she wondered.

A small honour guard had been sent from the Red Keep, as well as a carriage, but that was for Lord Redwyne, Sansa was sure. Had Stannis known she and Shireen were coming, he would have been there to meet them himself. _And Devan would have come to see Jeyne and Maric._

Sansa wasted no time asking the first gold cloak she saw whether the king was still in the Red Keep, and had to work very hard to stay calm and composed when the startled guard stammered his response. “My - my queen,” he said, his eyes wide. “We were not expecting you.”

“Please, ser, I must know if the king is still here.”

“He is,” the guard said, blinking. “He’s up at the castle, Your Grace.”

Sansa closed her eyes, relief coursing through her like the headiest of Paxter’s wines. “Thank you, ser.”

By the time Sansa was in the Red Keep, being greeted by a very flustered royal steward who had not been expecting her either, she knew exactly where Stannis would be. After all, it was just before midday.

“His Grace is in the council chambers, is he not?” Sansa said, still in her cloak. “I wish to speak to him at once.”

The royal steward nodded. “His Grace is indeed with the small council, my queen.”

“Good,” she said, tugging her gloves off. “I will speak to you later about my apartments.” She could not continue to reside in the Maidenvault now that she was queen. She would have to move to the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. “Please find somewhere appropriate for Lord Redwyne and Lady Brienne to stay.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“And please have Maester Gormon see Lady Jeyne Seaworth as soon as he is able. She is with child, and the journey did not agree with her.”

The steward bowed. “At once, my queen.” He left to do her bidding.

Shireen walked over. “Are you going to see Father right away?”

“Yes.” Sansa could barely stay still. “Would you like to come with me?”

“No, I must freshen up.” Shireen had not been as seasick as Jeyne, but she was pale and clearly in need of a rest. “But perhaps we could take dinner together? Just the three of us?”

Sansa agreed and left soon after, Ser Gerald following her. She told him he was welcome to go and refresh himself along with Shireen and the rest of their party, and that there were plenty of other guards for her now that they were back in the Red Keep, but he merely smiled and stayed by her side. “Lady Brienne told me to guard you with my life until she can rejoin you.”

She smiled back, distracted from the burning need to see Stannis for a moment. “Very well, if _Lady Brienne_ commands it, you must do as she says.”

Ser Gerald grinned.

They walked quickly and did not stop until they reached the door to the council chambers. Sansa came to a halt there, drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a long moment before letting it slowly out. It was of no use, however. Her heart was still hammering. On the other side of the door, she could hear the faint sound of men conversing. 

_He’s here. He’s alive. Everything is well. Be calm._

She nodded at one of the gold cloaks guarding the door. He had been pretending not to stare at her, while the other one was openly gaping. “If you’d be kind enough to knock, ser.”

He knocked. The voices on the other side of the door fell silent.

“Enter.”

Sansa’s heart jumped. That had been Stannis’s voice. She was sure of it.

The gold cloak opened the door for her and stood back. She took another deep breath and walked into the council chambers, regretting for a fleeting moment that she had not taken the time to freshen up. She was still in her practical travelling clothes: simple, warm, and made to her measurements, but nothing designed to catch or please the eye. The thought was gone as soon as she laid eyes on Stannis, however. He was sitting at the council table with all the others, and had barely looked up from a map they had been examining. He looked thinner than he had when she had last seen him, his cheeks hollowed out and his customary leather jerkin loose on his frame. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, and his muscles rigid with tension. 

Seeing him released something that had been trussed up inside of her, locked up and chained: a mixture of wild joy and deep grief that flooded her with heat and had her breath catching. Her fingers itched to touch him. She longed to see him relax beneath her hands, his eyelids drift shut, his lips part, and his jaw unclench. She longed to have him unclothed in her bed, his weight comforting on top of her. Real. Alive. _Hers._

Ser Barristan was the first to realise who she was, and rose swiftly to his feet.

“My queen,” he said, bowing.

The other council members scrambled to their feet as well - though Lord Varys took his time - and Sansa would have been so happy to see them all - especially Ser Barristan and Davos - if her body weren’t suddenly shaking and flushed. She barely had the wherewithal to note that Uncle Brynden was absent, and so was Ser Aron Santagar.

She had tried not to think about the way it had felt to lie with Stannis while she had been away. On Tarth there had been plenty to occupy her mind, and on the rare night when she had not been plagued by nightmares and had instead awoken in a sweat with her woman’s place aching and empty, it had been easy enough to push the memories aside and think of something else. It was disconcerting to be so overwhelmed by them now.

Stannis was still in his seat. He had looked up when Ser Barristan spoke, and was now staring at her as if she were some ghost come to haunt him.

“Sansa?” he said, his voice hoarse.

She smiled and made herself keep still though it was a torment. She wanted so much to cross the room and sit down on top of him, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him so deeply that they would both run out of air.

Davos cleared his throat loudly. “I believe we were mostly finished for the time being, my lords,” he said, his eyes smiling when they met hers. “Shall we pick up again tomorrow?”

There was a general murmur of assent, and then a bustle of movement and rustling papers as the members of the small council all filed out of the chambers, most of them saying a quiet, “Your Grace,” or, “welcome back,” as they passed her by. She made sure to tell Davos and Dale that Maric was back, and their joy made her heart ache. _The grey plague almost robbed them of this joy._ Lord Varys gave her a simpering smile, but his eyes looked inward, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. She could not guess whether her return was a surprise to him.

“It’s good to see you, my queen,” Ser Barristan said warmly as he walked past her, grabbing Ser Gerald by the shoulder and steering him out the door with him. Ser Gerald grimaced and muttered protests under his breath, but went along with his lord commander.

Once the door had been closed gently behind the two knights, Sansa finally let herself approach the table where Stannis was still sitting. He had not moved an inch since he’d said her name. He’d only barely blinked.

Unlacing her cloak as she walked, she let it fall to the carpeted floor with a soft woosh of fabric on fabric. She did not want it getting in the way. When she finally reached him, she leaned over to wrap her arms tightly around him in an embrace that had her eyes filling with tears.

“I was so frightened for you,” she whispered. 

As if her touch had reanimated him, he rose from his seat. “What are you doing here?” he asked. He was towering over her, staring as if he could not believe his eyes.

“I came with Lord Redwyne,” she said, trying to embrace him again. Her heart plummeted when he held his hands up to stop her. “Shireen is here, too. We couldn’t let you go to the Wall without saying good-bye,” she said, not attempting to disguise the hurt in her voice.

His eyes flashed at the mention of his daughter. “I told you to stay on Tarth,” Stannis said, frowning. “Why have you disobeyed me?”

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment. She had hoped they would be able to leave this conversation for later. Steeling herself, she looked back at him. “I wanted to see you before you went north. And King’s Landing is where I belong. A queen’s place is with her people.”

“There are people on Tarth, are there not?”

She frowned. _That is not what I meant._ “I could not have lived with myself if I had waited on Tarth for the outcome of the war to come, cowering in fear,” she said, shaking her head and willing him to understand. “I may not be the Protector of the Realm as you are, but I must do my duty as queen.”

Stannis’s eyes flickered downwards, his skin flushing, and her cheeks warmed as she wondered whether he was thinking about her duty to provide him with heirs. She took a tiny step closer to him, her cheeks warming further. But the movement had him blinking and looking back into her eyes with a scowl. 

“What duty is that?”

“I must... comfort our subjects,” she said, licking the roof of her mouth as it had gone suddenly dry. It was strangely difficult to find the words she had rehearsed over and over as she had prepared for this conversation. “I must lead them with compassion and mercy, and pray with them for better days.”

Recognition flickered in his gaze, and his mouth twisted into something like mocking amusement. “‘Soothe the wrath and tame the fury’?”

Sansa’s blush deepened, her stomach fluttering. She did not avert her gaze, however. “I must do what I can.”

Stannis’s hands were on her shoulders now, squeezing them. “And if I say there is nothing you can do? And that it is my wish - my _command_ \- that you and my daughter remain on Tarth?” He punctuated his last words by clutching her shoulders even more tightly, glaring at her, his lips a thin line.

“Stannis,” she breathed, her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. “I cannot continue to hide on Tarth now that there is a truce. It would be dishonourable.”

“I don’t care,” Stannis said, his voice forceful and raw. “I would see you safe, Sansa.”

“If you win the war I will be safe here in King’s Landing,” Sansa said, placing her palms flat on his chest. “And if you lose…” she trailed off, swallowing. The horrors that awaited if the Wall fell and the Others won were too terrible to contemplate, and the idea of losing everyone she had ever loved - with the possible exception of Shireen and Jeyne - still had the power to fill her with overwhelming dread. “If you lose, there will be no true safety. For anyone. You know that.”

 _Even if it is true that the Others and their wights cannot swim, how long can a small population of people hope to live on an island in the depth of winter without being able to resupply? Without being able to visit the mainland for any reason?_ Stannis had to know this just as well as she did.

His grip on her shoulders slackened. “You could go to Essos.”

Sansa moved one hand from his chest to his cheek, stroking the rough bristles of his beard with her thumb. “You know I can’t do that. No more than you could.”

He clenched his jaw. “Why not?”

“How would I live with myself?” she said, her throat closing up on the words. She withdrew from him, hugging herself instead. “Fleeing like that when you’d be fighting? When my father, my brothers… nearly everyone I’ve ever loved…” She stopped abruptly, unable to give voice to it. She took a deep breath and dropped her arms to her sides. “I would rather stay in King’s Landing and try to be of some use to our subjects.”

He stared at her for a moment, and she had the strangest notion that he was trying to drink her in with his eyes. Almost as soon as the thought struck her, he was moving closer, his hands grasping her neck and then sliding up to her hair, digging into her plaits and loosening them, fingers burrowing wherever they could reach. His lips crashed into hers with a force that knocked her back a step, his breathing quickly becoming uneven and laboured. She wound her arms around his neck in welcome, pressing herself to him until there was not an inch of space between them, kissing him back with everything she had.

Groaning into the kiss, Stannis’s hands drifted from her hair and down her back, roaming aimlessly for a while before gripping her waist firmly. She gasped as he suddenly lifted her, depositing her on the council table without so much as breaking their kiss. She spread her thighs instinctively to allow him to stand between them, enjoying the heat of him as it burned its way through the layers of her gown and smallclothes.

“I missed you,” she breathed into his ear when he began to kiss her neck.

His hands twitched and his mouth opened, hot air hitting the skin just beneath her jaw as he exhaled, his lips and tongue following after in a way that had her closing her eyes and thanking the gods that she was no longer standing up. The sensations were sending shock after shock of heat through her, turning her knees to jelly and filling her with an unbearable need.

She parted her lips, not quite knowing whether she was about to beg Stannis to take her to bed, or perhaps just take her right there on the table, but before she could get a single word out, Stannis froze, his head turning towards the door.

There were raised voices.

Sansa listened hard, but couldn’t make out what the men on the other side of the door were saying. Not until one of the men speaking actually shouted.

“My lords, wait!”

But apparently the lords did not wish to wait, for the door sprang open. It was all confusion, but from what Sansa could see, it seemed that her father and Lord Paxter were involved in some kind of awkward, not-quite-scuffle with Ser Barristan and Ser Gerald.

“I wish to see my daughter,” her father was saying as he tried to get past the knights.

Stannis quickly stepped away from her, assisting her down from the table. She smoothed her skirts down, blushing so hotly that her cheeks prickled and stung. 

“Sansa,” her father said, finally managing to sidestep Ser Gerald and approach her, his expression turning strange as his eyes went from her hair, to her face, to the cloak that was still lying where she’d left it on the floor. “Your Grace,” he added, looking slowly up at Stannis and giving him a hard stare.

“Lord Stark.” Stannis crossed his arms and glowered.

Lord Paxter was standing still, his view of the chamber still partially obstructed by Ser Barristan, but Sansa was sure he must feel the awkward tension filling the room. She closed her eyes and tried to will her face to cool and her heart to slow. She had been longing to see her father for months and months, but when she had imagined their reunion, it had been nothing like this.

“Father,” she said, opening her eyes and trying to sound as if everything was well. She looked at her father, taking his appearance in. Like Stannis, her father had lost a lot of weight since she had seen him last, his doublet hanging loose. His hair had grown longer as well as his beard, and there were lines on his face that she was sure had not been there when he had left King’s Landing all those months ago. “Gods,” she said, blinking back tears. “ _Father._ ”

The tension broke, and her father’s stern expression melted into something much more raw as he closed the distance between them and enveloped her into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said in a low voice, addressing Stannis. “We asked them to wait.”

Stannis was still glowering, but waved the apology away. 

Ser Barristan nodded. “We will be outside if you need us, Your Grace.” He left the chamber, once again dragging a reluctant Ser Gerald along with him.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled her father’s familiar scent, tightening her arms around him. She couldn’t believe he was truly here.

“You’ve grown,” her father said, still holding her close, his voice choked up.

Sansa shook her head, giving a wet laugh. “I haven’t.”

“And I hear you’re queen now,” he went on, stepping back to look her over. He shot Stannis another hard stare.

“I am,” she said, her heartbeat quickening. She looked at Stannis, wondering whether he and her father had discussed the matter before now. _They must have._

“His Grace said it was a small ceremony. A formality.” Father’s eyes were turning a stormy grey, and he was looking her over again, as if searching for signs of damage. He bent to pick up her cloak, shaking it out and offering it to her.

“It was,” Sansa said, reining her emotions in. She glanced at Stannis and back at her father as she allowed him to place the cloak over her shoulders. “A lavish wedding feast did not seem prudent.”

“I’m sure.” Another much more pointed glare at Stannis followed these words.

A vein on the side of Stannis’s neck was throbbing, but he was not meeting her father’s eyes. He was glowering intently at the floor instead.

“It was a beautiful ceremony, Father,” Sansa said. “I wish you could have been there.”

“Your mother should have been there,” he murmured, his gaze softening. He touched her cheek before retracting his hand. “She should be here now,” he added with a sigh.

“My lady mother would be most welcome to visit,” Sansa said quickly, closing her eyes and imagining it; her family gathered in King’s Landing with her, far from the Wall and the Others. She saw all of their faces so clearly, all smiles and tears at being reunited at last. Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog would chase each other and howl with joy, and maybe Ghost would even join in, in his quiet way.

“And she will,” Father said, a sad smile touching his lips briefly. “Once the war is won. But she won’t leave Winterfell now. The winter town is full to bursting, and she is doing her best to keep everyone fed and warm.”

“I thought the winter town would be near empty,” Sansa said, frowning. “Didn’t most of the smallfolk flee to the south?” She furrowed her brow, trying to recall everything Ella’s father had said when he had first petitioned Stannis for aid.

“Most did,” her father said, nodding. “But there were people beyond the Wall, Sansa. Innocent people the Others might have taken if we had not allowed them passage south. We had to find them a safe place to stay.”

Sansa stared at her father. _The winter town is full of wildlings?_ It was such an odd thought that she had no idea how to feel or respond. “Of course,” she said, blinking. “But we’re being impolite,” she said, drawing her courtesies about her and straightening her back with a smile. “Lord Redwyne, have you come to speak to His Grace? Shall we all have a seat?”

Stannis stiffened, his eyes darting between Sansa and Lord Paxter.

“I had thought to inform His Grace of my arrival and discuss certain matters pertaining to my fleet,” Lord Paxter said, giving her a courteous bow. “I would have waited for an invitation, my queen, but I was given to understand that time was of the essence.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, smiling brightly at him. She turned to Stannis. “Do you have time right now, Your Grace?”

For a moment Stannis just looked severely pained, but he nodded with a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”

Sansa summoned a servant and asked for a simple lunch to be served in the council chambers for the four of them. 

Once they had taken their seats, there was an awkward silence. Stannis did not seem eager to speak, her father was staring sullenly at the table as if deep in thought, and Lord Paxter was sitting as stiffly as when Sansa had first met him, looking from her to Stannis with a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“Paxter,” Sansa said, addressing him as she had grown used to over the past days. “Perhaps you should tell His Grace how bravely your men fought in the Straits of Tarth, and how many ships survived?” She gave him an encouraging smile, and was pleased to note that his shoulders relaxed by a margin. 

“Certainly, my queen,” Paxter said, launching at once into an account of the battle, and tallying up the ships, the men, and the supplies he had brought to King’s Landing. While he spoke, servants arrived with a modest spread for them, and Sansa realised when the smell of fresh-baked bread hit her nose how very hungry she was. She tried to listen carefully while she served herself a thick slice, spooning a generous dollop of raspberry jam on top, but she was sure she missed one or two things as a servant offered her an iced milk in a hushed voice. 

“... a third of my fleet remains in the Sunset Sea, fighting the Ironborn, but if you command it, I can send for them,” Paxter said in the end, bowing his head.

“There’s no time,” Stannis said abruptly, hostility in every line of his face. He had yet to touch any of the food. “The men Lord Arryn sent should arrive by tomorrow, or overmorrow at the latest, I mean to leave for the Wall as soon as they’re here.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped. _So soon?_

“Am I to understand that you no longer wish for my fleet’s support?” Paxter was turning an alarming shade of purple.

Stannis opened his mouth to reply, his expression cross and his eyes threatening rudeness.

“Of course the Crown wishes for your fleet’s support,” Sansa said quickly. “And your loyalty in this matter is appreciated.” She glanced briefly at Stannis, who had closed his mouth and appeared to be grinding his teeth, before smiling at Paxter once again. “The supplies you have brought will be especially helpful. Don’t you think so, Your Grace?”

“I suppose we do have three dragons to feed, now,” Stannis said grudgingly, glancing at her father. 

Father had spread soft white cheese onto his bread, and was chewing thoughtfully. “From what Daenerys Targaryen tells me, they hunt on their own. There is still game to be had in the north,” her said once he had swallowed and washed his bread down with a sip of wine. “They ought to be fine. The men, however, will be grateful for additional provisions.”

“The dragons have already gone north?” Paxter asked, leaning forward in his chair with interest. He had only eaten half a slice of bread and a few bites of the soft white cheese, but he was on his second cup of wine.

“Nearly everyone has gone,” Stannis said, sounding impatient. “We would be gone if we were not waiting for the men of the Vale.”

“What about the people of King’s Landing?” Sansa asked, looking from her father to Stannis. “The siege must have taken its toll on the granaries. Should Lord Paxter’s provisions not go to them?”

“With careful rationing, none should starve,” Stannis said, his jaw working. “The provisions will be of more use in the north.”

 _Food rationing, the threat of the grey plague, and winter gloom on top of it all?_ The people of the city would soon be revolting. Sansa bit her lip, wondering whether to say anything.

“Sansa?” he father asked, giving her a searching look. “What is it?”

She hesitated for a beat, but decided to be bold. “Could not half the supplies go to the people of King’s Landing, and the other half to the north?” She cast Stannis an imploring look. “Our people have just lived through a siege. Shouldn’t they have full bellies for a day or two?”

“What’s a full belly compared with the chance to survive?” Stannis scoffed. “Only a fool would feast for one day rather than eat sparingly for a week.”

Sansa looked down, her stomach tightening. The remains of their lunch spread was directly in her line of sight, and she closed her eyes with a twinge of guilt. From what she had seen when she had visited the villagers on Tarth, even such a modest spread would be considered a feast by the smallfolk. “I did not mean that we should feast them,” she said quietly. _Only that they should eat well, knowing that their king and queen care for their wellbeing._

“What did you mean then, Sansa?” her father asked.

Sansa looked from her father’s patient expression to Stannis’s hard one. But when she looked closer, she could see that there was a spark of curiosity in Stannis’s eyes. Emboldened, she began to explain. “I thought we could have loaves of bread made, stamped with the royal seal, and given to every household.”

“That would be sure to win you the smallfolk’s favour,” Paxter said, nodding.

Stannis scowled at Paxter and then looked at Sansa with narrowed eyes. “And who is to bake all this bread? Who will see that it is distributed fairly, rather than hoarded by unscrupulous wastrels?”

She hadn’t considered that. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her insides squirming.

“Your Grace,” her father said, “it would be simple enough to pay the bakers of the city to bake the bread, and have the gold cloaks watch to make sure no swindling takes place.”

Stannis’s lips thinned. “The gold cloaks have better things to do.”

“My men would be happy to assist in this venture, Your Grace,” Paxter said, smiling at Sansa. The wine had stained his lips purple and his teeth dark. “After all, it would be Reach grain that would be distributed to the bakers. Why not have the men of the Reach make sure it is all done properly?” His smile widened. “Perhaps Highgarden’s seal might be stamped on the loaves along with the royal seal?”

Stannis went rigid in his seat at this.

“I’m sure that could be discussed,” Sansa said, returning Paxter’s smile.

“And I would be happy to write to Lord Tyrell,” Paxter went on, “to see if the Reach can spare more provisions.”

“That would be most kind,” Sansa said. More provisions from the Reach would certainly help, but she doubted they would be able to spare enough to make up for what Daenerys had cost the city and the crownlands. _We shall have to order supplies from Essos as soon as possible._

“Well, that settles the matter of the supplies I have brought,” Paxter said, looking pleased. “But what of the men? The ships?”

“If I might make a suggestion, Your Grace?” her father said, looking at Stannis.

Stannis gave an irritable jerk of his head and poured himself a cup of water, adding a pinch of salt with a disgruntled expression.

“Perhaps Lord Redwyne’s men might stay in King’s Landing to bolster its defenses? Along with the ships that will not be needed to ferry provisions north?” Father said. “We still do not know what Prince Doran intends to do.”

“Prince Doran is fighting a plague,” Stannis said dismissively.

“Plagues burn themselves out,” her father argued.

“If he intends to march off to war the moment the grey plague subsides, he is a fool.”

“Perhaps,” her father agreed, frowning. “But would it not be more foolish still to ignore the possibility? The Martells have long memories, Your Grace. They have not forgotten how the rebellion ended.”

Stannis closed his eyes and took a loud, deep breath. “Very well,” he said, opening his eyes. “Lord Redwyne, have you any objections?” A harsh glare accompanied the question.

“None, Your Grace,” Paxter said. He drained the wine from his cup and rose from his seat. “I shall go at once and inform my captains.”

Once he was gone, another awkward silence fell. Stannis was grinding his teeth again, and her father was staring at his cup of wine, a frown tugging at his lips.

Sansa finished her iced milk though it was not very cold anymore. “Stannis’s letter said Mother and everyone is well,” she said, catching her father’s eye. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” he shot her a small smile. “I went to Winterfell before I sailed south, and they are all well. Arya is driving your mother mad, of course, demanding to go to the Wall to fight the Others, and you would not recognise Rickon; he has grown so much.”

“And Robb and Lady Margaery? Bran?” She leaned forward eagerly.

“They are all well,” Father said. “Lady Margaery is with child, and your mother is certain it will be a boy.”

Sansa froze for a moment, unable to draw breath. _First Jeyne, now Margaery?_ Her father’s words were echoing in her head, piercing her heart and her lungs. She was aware of Stannis straightening his back and giving her a searching look, but could not meet his eyes. She blinked quickly, forcing herself to breathe. To smile. “What happy news, Father. You must be so pleased.”

“Pleased enough,” he said modestly. His eyes had lightened to silver, however, which meant that he was very pleased indeed.

“Jeyne is with child, too,” she offered, keeping her smile firmly in place and doing her best to ignore the bitter emotions clawing at her insides. “I hope Devan is still here so that she will be able to tell him in person.” She risked a glance at Stannis.

“He’s here,” he said, his expression unreadable.

At his words, Sansa could see Devan’s smiling face in her mind’s eye, wild with joy at Jeyne’s news. The pain in her chest receded, and the envy faded as quickly as it had come. _Jeyne will be so happy._ Sansa closed her eyes in relief. “Good.”

“Jeyne is full young to be carrying,” her father said, his brow furrowed. He fixed Sansa with a serious look. “I hope you will not be attempting to produce heirs so quickly.” He looked at Stannis now. “It will be safer when she is a little older. Which is why I asked that you should not marry until her seventeenth nameday.”

Blushing nearly as hotly as she had when her father had first entered the council chamber, Sansa looked down at her hands. “I’m not with child, Father. You mustn’t worry.”

Stannis said nothing, nor did he move. Sansa was tempted to glance up to see whether his expression had changed, but couldn’t bring herself to. It would hurt too much if he looked disappointed.

“Sansa, you must understand -”

“She is my wife, Lord Stark. And Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Stannis said, cutting her father off, his voice sharp. “Her safety is my concern now.”

She had to look up. Stannis and her father were glaring at each other, the silence between them growing tenser by the second.

“Stannis, Shireen asked if we could take dinner together this evening,” Sansa blurted out, hoping to distract them both. “Perhaps you could join us, Father?”

“I wouldn’t wish to impose,” Father said stiffly, still glaring at Stannis.

“We’re family,” Sansa reminded him, doing her best to keep her voice light. “I’m sure Shireen would love to have you there.”

Stannis got up from his seat, rising so abruptly that the chair nearly fell over behind him. “I wish to see my daughter.” Without another word, he strode to the door and left.

Sansa sat still, flinching when the door slammed shut. Her father remained seated too, his frown deepening. 

“I don’t like this, Sansa,” he said after a long moment. “It is not what was agreed upon.”

She didn’t want to talk anymore. She wanted to find a place where she could be alone with her thoughts, and have someone else explain everything to Father. But she knew it had to be her, so she closed her eyes and tried to sort through the dark fog in her mind.

“Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival changed things,” she said, meeting her father’s eyes. “We couldn’t afford to keep waiting.” She hesitated, wondering again how much her father already knew about what had happened. He had clearly spoken to Stannis, but had he discussed the matter with Uncle Brynden? “We didn’t _want_ to wait.”

“Decisions such as these should not be made due to impetuous desires!” Father said, leaning on his elbows and hiding his face in his hands.

Sansa didn’t understand. “We were already betrothed,” she said, not bothering to disguise her confusion. “Why does it matter that we married six months early?”

Her father looked up, examining her closely. “Do you remember the promise you made to me before I left King’s Landing?”

For a moment Sansa’s mind went blank, but then it came to her. “You asked me to prevent Stannis from going to the Wall.” She frowned as she spoke. “Have you changed your mind?” _He must have._ Else he would not have asked Daenerys and Stannis both to come north.

He shook his head. “I cannot tell you why, but there is a person at the Wall that I did not want Stannis to meet.

“But now he’s no longer there?” she guessed, still confused.

“No, he’s still there. And he exists because a young girl was pressed to make a very impetuous decision that she was not ready to make, by someone much more powerful than her. Someone she should not have trusted.” He paused, his eyes filling with grief. “It cost her her life.”

 _That poor girl._ While her heart ached for the girl in her father’s story, she still did not understand what he was trying to explain. “Are you saying you don’t think Stannis can be trusted?”

“Stannis is a good man,” Father said, sounding tired. “But he has his faults. I had hoped he would prove himself worthy. That he would honour our agreement. Be patient.”

“He wanted to be patient at first,” Sansa said, her heartbeat quickening. “He intended to send me to Tarth without marrying me, but I would not hear of it. If Daenerys had not come, we would have waited.”

“If he had truly wanted to honour our agreement, he would not have allowed himself to be persuaded.”

Sansa fought a strong urge to bury her face in her hands and sigh. Instead she changed the subject slightly. “What will you do once you’re at the Wall? Try to keep Stannis from speaking to this man you don’t want him to meet?”

“Let me worry about that,” Father said, his expression turning grim.

“Why don’t you want Stannis to meet him?”

“Because some stones are best left unturned.” There was a note of finality to her father’s voice that made it clear that he would not answer more questions regarding the matter.

Sansa let her eyes wander for a quiet moment, examining the painted screen in the corner of the chamber and trying to imagine what some of the creatures might look like if she were to see them in the flesh. _They cannot be as impressive or terrifying as a dragon,_ she thought, recalling the black monster she had seen in the sky above Tarth. She could still feel the way its scream had caused the hairs of her body to stand on end. 

“Does Arya really want to go and fight the Others?” she eventually found herself asking, wondering what Arya would think of the dragons if she got to see them. _She would not be afraid. She’d probably want to ride one, just like Daenerys._

“Apparently she’s been caught sneaking out of Winterfell twice,” Father said, sounding somehow both amused and disapproving.

Sansa tried to suppress a smile, but did not quite manage it. “Who caught her?”

“Grey Wind. And Syrio.”

Sansa nodded to herself. “Of course.” She bit her lip, thinking. “How - how far along is Lady Margaery? Is she in good health?”

“She’s at four or five months I believe, and doing well,” Father said, his eyes softening. “Your mother is helping her. Just as she would wish to help you, when the time comes.”

It should not be a relief to know that Margaery could not have conceived the child she was carrying immediately after the wedding, but Sansa felt as if a weight had been lifted from her nonetheless. “I’d like that,” she said, giving her father a small smile.

They lingered in the council chambers for a little longer, her father telling her more news from Winterfell, but refusing to tell her anything of the war at the Wall. She managed to persuade him to tell her a little of what had been happening in King’s Landing however, and was relieved to hear that Uncle Brynden’s absence from the small council had a simple explanation. He had ridden out with an honour guard to meet the men of the Vale, and would be returning soon. Sansa told her father a little of what Tarth had been like in return, but did not mention the grey plague or the treatment they had found. She’d rather tell that story with Shireen beside her. When she left to go freshen up, she asked him again to come to dinner, and he promised he would.

But freshening up turned out to be a challenge involving the royal steward, unaired chambers in the royal apartments that had not been in use since Queen Selyse died, misplaced luggage, and confused servants. By the time she was finally out of her travelling clothes and submerged in hot water, the last rays of the winter sun were struggling to make it through her windows, and she had missed tea with Shireen and the other ladies.

“Leave me,” Sansa said to her maids, “I will call for you when I require assistance with my hair.”

Alone at last, Sansa sank deeper into the steaming water, not caring that it was turning her skin pink. The copper tub the servants had brought did not allow her to stretch her legs out, and her knees peeked out of the water like snowy islands. She closed her eyes and inhaled, enjoying the mild floral scent of the oils that had been added to the water. After several deep breaths, she was fully relaxed, and almost sleepy. Which was why she nearly jumped out of her skin in fright when she heard the door to her chambers open and shut, and heavy, booted footsteps that sounded nothing like the light tread of a maid.

Heart pounding, she sat up and tried to see around the Myrish bathing screen. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice higher than it ought to be. “Ella?”

“It’s me,” a familiar voice said.

 _Stannis._ She was relieved for a moment, but then her heart was racing again. “Stannis? What is it? Can it not wait? I’m bathing.”

“Why do you call Lord Redwyne by his given name?” Stannis asked. He remained on the other side of the screen, so Sansa stopped craning her neck to try to see him, staring instead at the flowers carved into the wooden screen.

“Because he invited me to.” _Why else?_

She could hear Stannis grind his teeth. “Why did he invite you to do that?”

“He said it was because we are practically family,” Sansa said, drawing her knees closer to her chest. “With Lady Margaery being his wife’s niece, and lately wed to my brother.”

Stannis scoffed. “You must not trust him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he, like Mace Tyrell, knows no loyalty,” Stannis ground out, his voice agitated. “They are false friends and liars. You should not be encouraging his influence. First it will be Highgarden’s stamp on the bread, and then they will all be back, slipping poison into our cups!”

“Would you have me treat him discourteously?” she asked, unsure what he wanted from her. “We will need the Reach lords if we are to survive this winter.” _You know that._

Stannis was silent.

“Stannis?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

She shifted in the water in another failed attempt to see around the screen. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss?”

“Shireen told me what happened to Maric.”

Sansa went still. “About how she saved him?”

“Yes.”

“She was so brave,” Sansa said eagerly, wishing she could see Stannis’s face. “She saved nearly all of us.”

“She should not have had to,” Stannis bit out. “You were supposed to be safe on Tarth, it was supposed to be - ” He cut himself off abruptly.

“We were safe,” Sansa said softly. “We _are_ safe.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Sansa’s water was still warm, but steam was no longer rising from the surface. Her fingertips had pruned.

“She spoke of a treatment,” Stannis said at length. “Of giving her scar to others?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, looking down at her arm. “Would you like to see?”

Silence.

“Stannis?”

He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t intended to intrude.” 

Sansa smiled to herself, relieved that Stannis no longer sounded upset. “Come see,” she said. “We are married, are we not?”

His boots moved slowly across the floor, and he appeared on the left of the screen, his expression strange, eyes averted.

She offered her arm, blushing a little. “Jeyne says it’s ugly,” she said. “She asked for hers to be placed on her lower back instead.”

“If it protects you from the grey plague, its appearance does not matter.” Stannis had moved right to the edge of the copper tub, and was staring hard at the scar, his jaw clenched. A red flush was creeping up to his face from his neck.

“That’s just what I think,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. His eyes went to her face at that, lingering on her lips. But after a moment his gaze strayed to her bosom, though it was half submerged in her bathwater. Teasingly, she sat up a little straighter, bringing her chest up and out of the water.

He quickly looked away. “Sansa,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been a moment ago.

“Shall I come to your bed tonight?” she asked, a thrill passing through her at her own boldness. 

Stannis looked on the verge of nodding when he suddenly froze, a grimace appearing on his face. “Perhaps that would not be wise,” he muttered. “Your father is right; you are still full young -”

“Jeyne is younger than I am by several months, and she is _fine._ ” Sansa said, outrage simmering in her blood. _Only a little seasick. But Maester Gormon will put her to rights._

“As of yet, yes,” Stannis said curtly. “But she is only a few months along, correct?”

“What of it?”

“She may still lose the babe,” Stannis said, not looking at her. “She may die in the birthing bed.”

The blood drained from Sansa’s face. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, saying nothing.

Sansa sank down into the water as far as she could go, though her head and her knees still stuck out. “Have you not missed me?” she asked, thinking about how she had felt on their wedding day… how he had professed to feel. _Has he forgotten?_ Her chest tightened. _Or did he never truly feel the way I do?_ He had never really said it. Not properly. And when she had told him that she had missed him in the council chambers, he had not said anything in return.

“I should let you finish your bath,” Stannis said, turning his back to go.

A sudden burst of inspiration - or perhaps madness - prompted her to stand up. The sound of the water sloshing and then dripping down her body in streams and rivulets had Stannis freezing in his tracks. She was breathing hard, blushing at her own actions but refusing to let her doubts consume her. “I’ve finished,” she said, her voice strong and steady.

Slowly, Stannis turned on his heel to face her again, his eyes fixing on her face for a long, tense moment before his nostrils flared and he let his gaze follow the droplets of water that were still finding their way down her body. He swallowed, his hands curling into fists.

She let her eyes drift over his form, too. He was as tall and broad of shoulder as ever, though thinner and more wiry than she was used to. The way his cheeks had hollowed out, making his cheekbones more noticeable, gave his face a knife-edge look that was a little frightening, but not unattractive. His eyes were burning as he stared at her, and his skin was flushed. With a flare of satisfaction, Sansa also noted that there was a definite bulge at the front of his breeches.

_He still desires me._

Her own desire was turning molten, pulsing eagerly between her thighs and crying out for touch. Crying out to be filled. She shuddered, partly due to the feel of his eyes on her, and partly because the warmth of her bath had left her, and her skin was erupting into goose-flesh as the water cooled on her skin, her nipples tightening almost uncomfortably.

Stannis’s lips parted, and he took a lurching step forward, almost as if against his will.

“Take me to bed,” she said, doing her best to make it a command and not a request. Her voice had become a little breathless however, which spoiled the effect.

He sucked in a loud breath, closed his eyes briefly, and then closed the distance between them, picking her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her to the bed the servants had yet to make up. There was only a linen sheet covering the feather mattress to keep it from gathering dust. The sheet stuck to her wet back when he dropped her down, his hands tearing at the front of his breeches, his eyes roaming from her face to her legs and back again, never lingering overlong in one place.

Once his breeches were open at the front, he reached inside for his manhood, tugging on it with a groan before getting on the bed with her, still fully clothed. He had not even bothered to remove his boots. She’d prefer him to be naked, but didn’t risk asking. She didn’t want him to stop.

His mouth latched onto her right nipple, and after the cold air of the chamber, and the bathwater cooling on her skin, his tongue seemed flame-hot as it lathed the sensitive nub. She cried out in shock and pleasure, thrusting her chest forward without making a conscious decision to, her hands going to the back of his head to keep him in place. He squeezed her left breast tightly before seeking the nipple out and rolling it between his fingers as he continued to suck on the right one. The liquid heat between her thighs began to throb, and she closed her eyes and whimpered, trying to rub herself against him even though the rough fabric of his breeches chafed.

He shifted so that his body was between her thighs, and she gasped with relief when his manhood rubbed up against her where she so desperately needed attention. She bucked up with no thoughts in her head except to get him rub against her _there._ “There, there,” she heard herself say. “Please, Stannis, just there -”

His lips had moved to her neck, but the hand that was not busy keeping most of his weight off of her was still occupied at her breast, rolling and tweaking her nipple in ways that made her want to spread her thighs even further. His manhood was sliding easily against her as she had grown so slick with need, and every time he moved she saw little flashes of light behind her closed lids. His thumb ran over her nipple, rough and quick, and something inside her squeezed in on itself. 

“Inside,” she cried, her hands grabbing weakly at his leather jerkin, “Stannis, I need you inside…”

He didn’t make her wait. He shifted his weight again, and moved the hand that had been at her breast down between them, prodding and spreading, and finally guiding the head of his manhood inside.

His hips thrust forward, and suddenly she was stretched full.

_Gods…_

She barely heard him groan over the sound of her own cry of pleasure. But then he was moving and groaning more loudly with every thrust, and she was wrapping her legs around him, touching the back of his head, his neck, trying to hold onto the leather of his jerkin, eyes squeezed shut and breathing hard through her mouth whenever they weren’t kissing messily.

“More,” she begged after what seemed an eternity, needing him to go faster and harder, and bring her over the edge of the wave she was so close to cresting. She tried to shift her thighs, searching for an angle that would have him brushing more firmly against her with every thrust, but she hadn’t managed to find it when he moved instead.

He seemed to be searching for more leverage, and there was a bit of confusion while he tried to figure out how to find it. In the end he rose up almost to his knees, lifting her legs so that her ankles were at his shoulders, the skin along her calves and the back of her thighs sticking to the leather jerkin. He grabbed the wooden headboard for balance, and began driving into her ruthlessly fast, with enough force to cause the wooden frame of the bed to creak in protest. It all happened so quickly that she barely had time to register any of it. All she knew was that he was sending the most powerful shocks of pleasure she had ever felt through her, and she could not stop herself from making terribly unladylike noises as he did.

Something inside her was convulsing, and he seemed to feel it, too. He swore loudly, panting, and thrust in as far as he would go, his hips twitching.

For a moment they were both still; just breathing. But then he pulled out of her - a wet, strange sensation - and collapsed onto his back beside her.

A warm glow settled over her like a soft blanket, spreading through her and making the tips of her fingers and toes tingle. She turned into him, hiding her face against his neck, her lips curving into a secret smile when his arm tightened around her, bringing her even closer to him and holding her fast.

_Perhaps he missed me after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Stannis says "'Soothe the wrath and tame the fury'" he is referencing the Mother's hymn, and he does that because Sansa's talk of mercy and praying for better days is also a reference to the hymn.
> 
> This is the hymn:
> 
> Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
> Save our sons from war, we pray.  
> Stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
> Let them know a better day.
> 
> Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
> Help our daughters through this fray.  
> Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
> Teach us all a kinder way.
> 
> Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
> Save our sons from war, we pray.  
> Stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
> Let them know a better day.


	26. The Hour of the Eel

Sansa’s dinner with Stannis, Shireen, and her father was off to an awkward start.

Stannis had seemed well enough when he had left her chambers, but arrived for dinner with a grimace, and would not meet her eyes, nor her father’s. If it had not been for Shireen and the subject of the grey plague, Sansa was not sure how they would have made it through the first two courses. Father was fascinated by the treatment for the plague they had discovered on Tarth, and almost left the table to find and question Maric about his experience. The subject did not seem to please Stannis, however. He had been staring at his plate and clenching his jaw ever since Sansa and Shireen had brought it up.

“I hope Maester Colbat intends to write to the Citadel,” Father said. “This treatment should be studied further by the maesters there.”

“I know he’s been writing to Grand Maester Gormon,” Sansa said.

Father nodded. “And you say the idea came from a common northern girl? I should like to meet her and her father.”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled, “her name is Ella.” She glanced at Stannis. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about her, Your Grace.”

Stannis looked up from his plate, frowning. Whether he was frowning about being forced to participate in the conversation, or because she had addressed him formally, Sansa did not know. “Speak, then,” he said curtly.

“She saved a lot of lives,” Sansa said, looking briefly at Shireen. Shireen nodded encouragingly at her before fixing her father with a hopeful look. The two of them had often discussed what they could do for Ella to show their appreciation, but Stannis’s approval was required before they could do anything truly meaningful for her. “She should be rewarded.”

“She really should, Father,” Shireen said, her eyes wide and earnest. “Her contribution was no less valuable than Davos’s onions.”

Stannis considered this for a long moment before giving a nod, looking from Shireen to Sansa. “What do you suggest?”

Sansa’s heart leapt. “I thought perhaps the Crown could supply her with a dowry,” she said as calmly as she could, though some of her excitement bled into her voice. “Substantial enough for her to make a good marriage.”

He gave another nod. “A knight could be tempted to take her if her dowry should include lands and a keep,” he said. “But I would reward Evenfall Hall in equal measure. The Lord of Tarth’s maester contributed to the invention of the treatment, did he not?”

“He did,” Sansa agreed, smiling so widely it almost hurt. She had not dared to imagine that Stannis would go as far as to include lands and a keep in the dowry, nor had she guessed he’d want to reward Lord Selwyn and Maester Colbat, too. “You’re very generous.”

Stannis grunted, clearly uneasy with the praise, and Sansa made herself look down at her food, though she could not help glancing frequently at him, her heart swelling with fondness.

“If she would prefer a match with a northern knight, and a keep in the north, I could make enquiries, Your Grace,” her father said, his voice stilted and overly polite.

Another grunt.

“Thank you, Father,” Sansa said, turning her smile on him.

“Of course, it will all have to depend on the outcome of the war,” her father said, his expression darkening.

Sansa’s smile vanished at once, her stomach squeezing in on itself. “Please, let’s not speak of the war,” she said quietly.

“Why not?” Stannis said sharply. “The war will not disappear if you refuse to speak of it.”

“I know that.” _Although it would be sweet if it were so._ “It was only a request.”

“Sansa is right,” Father said, “It is not an appropriate thing to discuss with our daughters present. I should not have brought it up. I apologise.”

A tense silence fell. Stannis stabbed a bit of turnip with his fork while Sansa exchanged glances with her father and Shireen.

“Lord Stark, do you play cyvasse?” Shireen eventually asked, her voice bright.

Her father’s moody expression turned to one of surprise. “No, I can’t say that I do, Your Grace.”

“Would you like to learn?”

The tension thus broken, the conversation flowed somewhat naturally until dessert was served, with Shireen and Sansa taking turns explaining how cyvasse was played, though Shireen did most of the talking. Stannis continued on in silence, but seemed to be following the conversation with some amount of reluctant interest.

“It sounds like a fascinating game,” Sansa’s father said. “And you clearly understand it well.”

Shireen blushed. “Oh, no. I’m still learning, really. Father was teaching me.”

“You explain it as if you’ve played for years.” Sansa’s father turned to Stannis. “You must be proud of her progress.”

There had been a proud light in Stannis’s eyes as he had been observing Shireen, but he blinked it away and stiffened. “It’s only a game.” He rose to his feet, abandoning his untouched plate of dessert. “I have work to do.” He inclined his head at them jerkily, and made for the door.

The startled, hurt expression on Shireen’s face broke Sansa’s heart, and she would have glared at Stannis if she were Arya. _No, Arya would never make do with glaring. She’d be shouting at him, king or no._ But Sansa was not Arya.

As gracefully as she could, she followed Stannis, keeping her expression placid and polite. When Stannis reached for the door handle, Sansa placed her hand lightly on top of his. “Please stay a little longer?” she asked quietly. “You will be sailing north soon, and Shireen and I have missed you.”

“I have work to do,” he repeated, his eyes on her hand where it was resting on his, his jaw working.

“Please?” she repeated.

“No.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. “I will see you in your chambers, then.”

Stannis glanced quickly over at the table where her father and Shireen were still sitting. Sansa did not follow his eyes. She knew she had spoken too quietly for her father to hear.

“ _No._ ”

“I would only say good night to my husband,” she said. “Surely you would not deny me that?”

He hesitated, swallowing, his eyes were fixed on her face: dark blue and fathomless. His lips parted as if he meant to say something, but then he pressed them stubbornly together, blew out a harsh breath, shook her hand off, and left.

With as much composure as she could muster, her heart pumping hard, she returned to her seat. “Are you well?” she asked Shireen, searching her face for signs of distress.

The hurt in Shireen’s eyes was no longer quite as noticeable, but Sansa knew her well. She could still see it. “I am,” she said, smiling bravely. “Father sat with me for more than half an hour today,” she added as if to reassure Sansa, “and I’m sure I will see him again tomorrow.”

“He is king,” Sansa’s father said, his voice consoling. “And truly does have a lot of work to do.”

Shireen took a deep breath and nodded. “I know.” She squared her shoulders and smiled again. “Shall I fetch my cyvasse board? It’s much easier to understand the game when you can see the pieces.”

After Sansa’s maids had helped her get ready for the night, Sansa went to Stannis’s bedchamber, determined to wait for him there. There was so much she wanted to say to him. About Shireen and how he was hurting her; about how it had felt to be parted from him, having nightmares about what he might be going through. And she wanted to ask him about his feelings, and hear what it had been like for him. Had he been plagued by terrible dreams, too? Was he not pleased to have this chance to say good-bye to her and Shireen before he left for the most dangerous war he would ever fight?

Was he disappointed that she had not conceived?

She waited with knots in her stomach for a long time, watching the candles burn themselves out as her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. But when the hour of the bat neared an end and there was still no sign of Stannis, she decided that she would go look for him, treading carefully to keep from waking the sleeping guard outside the bedchamber’s door. Though it was odd to be walking around in the dark without Ser Gerald or Brienne, she was not worried about her safety. Maegor’s Holdfast was the strongest place in the Red Keep, surrounded by a dry moat filled with spikes. The only way inside was over a drawbridge, and she was sure Ser Barristan would have one of his knights posted there.

She found Stannis in his solar, several candles lit at his desk, head bent over a letter he was reading. Mounds of paper rolls littered the table’s surface, and Stannis had a pen in one hand, poised over a piece of paper that was already covered in his handwriting.

Sansa tugged her bed robe more tightly around her. “Can not Davos and the scribes help you with all of this tomorrow?” she asked, keeping her voice soft as not to startle him. He had not even looked up when she had opened the door. “It is nearly the hour of the eel.”

He looked up, his brow furrowed. “You should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

He pressed his lips together.

She sighed and walked closer to him. “Please come to bed.”

“Not a command this time?” he asked, fixing her with a hard look.

A blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled the way she had commanded him to take her to bed after her bath. “Just a request.” _Did he dislike it?_ It had not seemed as if he had at the time. “Was my command so objectionable?”

His eyes flashed. “I wanted to protect you. Honour your father’s wishes.”

“What of my wishes?” She kept her voice soft. Quiet.

“You do not wish to be protected?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. _I wish to spend time with the man you were when we married. The man who laughed with me when we woke up after our wedding night._ She opened her eyes back up and looked into his. “I want you to love me.”

“What you demanded of me today was not love,” he said firmly. “But you are my wife, and I... take no pleasure in denying your wishes.” His voice was steady and his tone was dispassionate, but as he spoke his face grew flushed.

Sansa didn’t understand him at all. “What did I demand if not love?” 

He was no longer looking at her. His hand had closed around his pen, and it was bleeding ink. “It was carnal lust.” His face was bright red.

She blinked. _I am too tired for this._ “Stannis, we’re married. Surely it is our duty -”

“It did not feel like duty,” he said quickly, dropping the pen and frowning at his ink-stained hand.

She took a step closer, her heart beating hard. “What did it feel like?” _Tell me. Tell me what you feel._

He swallowed. “I took you like some tavern wench,” he whispered, his skin still flushed. “I treated you ill.”

“I did not feel ill treated,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “We were apart for so long… I missed you. I wanted you,” she said, touching his cheek. “Just as I want you now.”

He snorted, staring down at his papers before glancing at her face in disbelief. “Now?”

“Yes.”

He went very still, outright staring at her. “Here?”

Sansa had been thinking of retiring with him to his chambers. After all, there was no bed in his solar. But she had fond memories of finding her pleasure with him on the bench by the window, and she supposed had been prepared to make do with the council chamber table today before lunch. She could probably sit on his desk just as easily. A thrill of excitement shot through her. “Yes.”

Stannis’s eyes widened. “Do you expect me to bend you over the desk?” he asked, looking away from her. “Have you not had enough of being treated like a strumpet?”

Her face grew hot as she tried to make sense of what he’d said. “I did not feel like a strumpet earlier,” she said, distracted. “And… why would you bend me over?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she considered the way she had seen animals mate, and how Jeyne had always said there were plenty of different variations. Positions. “Oh.” She could see it in her mind’s eye, and the image heated her blood to a boil. She swallowed. “ _Oh._ ”

Stannis placed a hand over the one she still had on his cheek. “You should go to bed.” His voice was awkward, and he was shifting in his seat. It was too dark for her to see whether there was a bulge at the front of his breeches, however.

“Could you show me?” she whispered, her heart fluttering, her blush spreading everywhere.

“Show you?” His voice had become strained, and his hand fell away from hers.

“I’m curious,” she said, biting her lip. It was true. She _was_ curious. But she was also interested in seeing how he’d react to this request. Was this something he secretly wanted? Or would he become outraged? Offended? “How would you bend a…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “... strumpet... over your desk?” 

“I have never done such a thing,” Stannis said sharply. But there was no true bite to the words, and he was not trying to stand up or get away. He could not be _very_ offended, then.

“Of course you haven’t,” she said, unlacing her bed robe and letting him glimpse the thin silk she wore underneath. “But you could show your wife, could you not? If memory serves, we did agree there was no harm in trying… different variations.” She risked a smile.

“Sansa,” he ground out, his eyes fixed on her.

She touched the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “Like this?” She looked at him questioningly. “Am I doing it right?”

He looked at the ceiling and exhaled loudly through his nose. Swearing under his breath, he got up from his seat and carefully moved the papers and candles to one side, clearing a space. “Stand here.” He made her face his desk, and pressed firmly down on her back to encourage her to bend over until her right cheek, her breasts and her stomach were flush against the polished wood. Without lifting her robe, he pressed himself to her rear and the backs of her thighs. She could feel the heavy length of his manhood even through the layers of clothing between them. “There,” he rasped. “Had enough?”

Her knees had gone weak. “Oh, I think - I think I don’t quite understand yet,” she said innocently. “How would you fit in me this way?”

He groaned and flipped her flimsy robe and the silk of her nightgown out of the way, easily gaining the access he needed. Slowly, he began to touch her, searching out the place they had found together; the part of her that could make her see stars. She moaned, relaxing completely against the hard wooden surface and spreading her thighs as best she could. His fingers were sliding easily, slipping in the wet, exploring and rubbing and occasionally dipping inside. She twitched and squeezed down when he did, trying to keep his long finger in place.

“Stannis,” she whimpered, after the hundredth time he’d withdrawn. It all felt wonderful, and her thighs were quivering, but she couldn’t take any more of this.

He must have managed to get his manhood out of his breeches while he had been toying with her, because she felt the tip of it nudging her now, sliding just as easily as his fingers.

Just the nudge was enough to make her gasp. “Please, yes…”

Carefully, he notched himself in place. The sensation of the blunt head of his manhood first slipping around and then stretching her entrance had her holding her breath and her legs shaking. She closed her eyes and waited, almost wanting to cry when nothing happened for one second. Two. Three.

Finally he pushed inside her in one smooth thrust.

The air left her lungs, and the noise that came with it was like no noise she had made before. She couldn’t understand why, but she had never felt so _full._

“Enough?” Stannis asked, his voice guttural.

She needed him to move. She had never needed him to move as much as she needed him to move right this second. Moaning, she rocked back and forth, trying to show him without words what she wanted.

Thankfully, he seemed to understand. He began to move, pulling halfway out of her and thrusting firmly back in, finding a steady rhythm that was _almost_ what she needed. It was enough to make the fine hairs all over her body stand on end and her toes to flex and curl impatiently, and it was enough to make each breath come out needy, and it was enough to cause her insides to shiver with each burst of pleasure that his steady thrusts brought her. But she needed more.

“More,” she moaned, grabbing the edge of the desk and squeezing her eyes shut. “Please, more.” _Hard, like today._

He sped up.

“Yes, oh… _oh._ ” It felt so good. She couldn’t, _oh,_ she couldn’t think… it was just blinding. Blinding, white, hot… _good._

The next thing she knew Stannis was stifling a groan and slowing down, but she didn’t care. Her entire body felt simultaneously numb and tingly. 

She didn’t get up when he pulled out of her and covered her rear with her robe. Her legs were not working. She could feel his seed running down the inside of her thigh, but she couldn’t make herself stand up.

“Sansa?” Stannis sounded concerned.

“Mmm,” was all she managed.

“Are you well?”

She moaned again.

Stannis pulled her off the polished surface of his desk and turned her around to face him. She almost stumbled since her knees still felt shaky, and threw her arms around his neck to save herself. He looked into her eyes and she smiled at him, feeling rather as if she’d had three cups of strong wine all in a row.

“You may have woken the entire castle,” he said, his tone stern. But his face was flushed with exercise, and his jaw looked as far from being clenched as she had ever seen it. He looked… relaxed.

She stifled a giggle, too drunk on pleasure to be embarrassed. “I don’t care. I liked it.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Death of me,” he muttered under his breath.

Sansa kissed him, her heart soaring at the eager way he met her lips, deepening the kiss at once. When they parted, she leaned back to look at him, though she kept her arms around his neck. “Will you come to bed and love me again? Without your clothes on this time?” She closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping that he would say yes. Hoping he would finally tell her that he loved her. That he would love her as often as she wished. As often as _they_ wished, and in any manner they both wanted.

“Very well,” he said, untangling himself from her to put out the candles on his desk. The only light that remained was the dying fire in the hearth. “I will come to bed.” He kissed her brow.

She nodded and tried to smile, filled with an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.

***

“Devan almost would not let me leave him to come here,” Jeyne said, her face glowing. “He has been so attentive. I don’t think he’s left my side since he found out I was back. You should have seen the look on his face when he saw me; he was so surprised!”

Sansa had invited Jeyne to lunch with her, and the servants had only just left them to eat in privacy. (Or in as much privacy as one was every likely to have in the Red Keep.) Serving herself a bit of the roasted rabbit, Sansa smiled at Jeyne. “And I suppose he was even more surprised when you told him your news?”

Jeyne’s eyes softened. “He was so happy,” she said, ducking her head. “I did not think he could look more joyful than when he saw me and Maric, but he - he was fit to _burst_ with happiness.”

“He deserves to be happy,” Sansa said, refusing to think of herself or Stannis, her stomach squirming. “You both do.”

“Thank you,” Jeyne said, carefully tasting a tiny piece of rabbit meat.

Sansa watched her closely, anxious that Jeyne might get sick, but she did not seem nauseated at all. “Did you see Maester Gormon yesterday?”

“I did.” Jeyne explained how the maester had examined her, and told her that she was just over three months along. “He gave me a tonic to settle my stomach, but said that I likely wouldn’t need it from now on.” She went on to tell Sansa of how she and the Seaworths had spent the rest of the previous day, though she made it clear that she and Devan had plenty of time alone. “I don’t think he’s ever kissed me as much,” she said in the end with a happy sigh. She did not remain silent for long, however, her happy expression turning sly. “How was it for you? I hear His Grace practically ravished you the moment he saw you.”

Blushing, Sansa reached for her cup. “He didn’t,” she said, sipping her water and not meeting Jeyne’s eyes. The water was very nice; she’d asked the servants to add lemon squeezings as they often did for Stannis, but a little honey too, for sweetness. “I’ve barely seen him,” she said with a sigh. 

“But I thought you had dinner with him?”

“I did, but my father and Shireen were there too, and Stannis didn’t linger past dessert. I wish he could have stayed longer for Shireen’s sake, but he said he had work to do.”

Jeyne frowned. “What about when he’d finished working?”

“He would have worked all night if I hadn’t insisted he get some sleep. And he was gone from bed when I woke up.” She gave another sigh. It had hurt when she’d woken to an empty bed, robbed of a chance to have a proper conversation. 

“How odd,” Jeyne said, tilting her head to the side. “I’m sure I heard the maids gossiping about how he couldn’t keep his hands off you.”

Sansa had another, larger sip of water. “Well, he did make time to bed me,” she whispered, her face warming. “But I practically had to demand it, and I’m - oh, Jeyne… I’m worried he doesn’t feel the same way about me as he did when we married.” The words came out in a rush, and there was a tight feeling in her chest that refused to go away. “He says he wants to protect me, but I’m scared that he’s disappointed in me.” She bit her lip. “Or angry.”

“Why would he be disappointed or angry?” Jeyne wore a sympathetic expression, but her confusion bled through in her voice.

“I’m not with child,” Sansa said in a small voice, staring at her cup. “Father is happy that I’m not; he thinks I’m too young. But when Stannis said good-bye to me before we left for Tarth…” She paused, wondering whether she should put it into words.

“What?”

“It just seemed like he was hoping I might have conceived. Like Mother did. On her and Father’s wedding night.”

“I’m sure he’s not angry with you about that,” Jeyne said at once. “Everyone knows that these things can take time. Devan and I were trying for months before it happened for us.”

“I know,” Sansa said, closing her eyes briefly. “Maester Gormon explained it.”

“Well, I spoke to Marya about it, and she says that if a woman got pregnant every time there was an… _attempt_... the world would fall out of the sky due to the weight of all the babies,” Jeyne said with a laugh.

Sansa gave a small smile, but couldn’t laugh. “Lady Margaery is pregnant,” she said dully. _Perhaps if Stannis had married Margaery, he’d already have an heir on the way._

“Congratulations!” Jeyne said brightly. “That means you’ll be an aunt soon.”

 _If the Others don’t take us all first._ “I suppose.”

The excitement faded from Jeyne’s face, and she frowned. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t think you should be.” Jeyne was still frowning, her words halting and considered. “King Stannis must have a lot on his mind with the war and everything… Don’t forget that he chose you out of all the ladies he could have chosen. Even though your father wanted him to wait until you were seventeen. He didn’t care. I’m sure he’s only behaving strangely because he’s worried about the war.”

Sansa wasn’t fully convinced, but the tightness in her chest abated somewhat, and she was able to smile properly. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am,” Jeyne said, her face brightening once more. “Just wait and see.”

***

After lunch with Jeyne, Sansa met with Davos, Lord Paxter and Lord Florent to discuss how to implement her bread idea, which went fairly smoothly once Lord Florent understood that the Crown would only have to pay the bakers for their time, and that Lord Paxter would be supplying both the grain and the men who would make sure the bread was distributed fairly. Sansa had been prepared to listen to a long argument about which seals the bread should be stamped with, but Davos did not object when Lord Paxter repeated his idea that the bread should be stamped with both the royal seal and Highgarden’s rose. Lord Florent looked highly displeased by the notion, but said nothing until after Davos and Lord Paxter had gone.

“Your Grace,” he said with a grimace. “Is it wise, relying so heavily on Highgarden to feed the people of King’s Landing? Being so indebted to House Tyrell will not please His Grace.”

 _Nor will it please you or your kin._ “We need every morsel we are offered,” Sansa said. “But I do think we should order supplies from Essos, too. Have we the coin to do that?”

“Of course,” Lord Florent said, puffing his chest out importantly. “The coffers are in excellent shape.”

“Please see to it, then.”

As soon as Sansa had finished with Lord Florent, she met with Maester Gormon and Shireen to talk about the treatment for the grey plague, and how best to prepare the city for the inevitable outbreak.

“Had it not been for the siege, I’m sure the city would be overrun by the plague by now,” Maester Gormon said, shaking his head. “I have men posted at all the gates, testing travellers that arrive to see whether their fingers are numb, but sooner or later someone is bound to slip through.”

“We should have Ella’s potion made in large quantities,” Sansa said, looking from Shireen to the maester to see if they agreed. “And perhaps we should search for more people with greyscale scars like Shireen’s?”

“I already have the gold cloaks looking,” Maester Gormon said with an approving nod. “With more people like Her Grace on hand, the treatment could be spread much more quickly.”

“But we don’t have to wait for them to find others like me, do we? We should start spreading it as soon as possible.” Shireen said. “I don’t mind helping. Truly.”

Maester Gormon’s thoughtful expression softened as he looked at Shireen. “Certainly. I had thought to start by treating those who are likely to come into contact with travellers from the stormlands.”

Sansa shook her head, recalling how reluctant her retinue on Tarth had been to take the treatment. “We must create a spectacle first.” she said. “Prove to the court and the smallfolk that the treatment is safe and desirable.”

Maester Gormon grimaced. “Do you really think that will be necessary? His Grace has already drafted a law -”

“It will be better if we prove that the treatment can be trusted before we start forcing it on everyone,” Sansa insisted.

“And what sort of spectacle did you have in mind, Your Grace?” Maester Gormon asked, his expression putting Sansa in mind of a mother humouring her child’s fancy.

“His Grace should accept the treatment from Princess Shireen. Publicly,” Sansa said. “And I will show my scar, and Maric Seaworth will tell his story, explaining how the treatment saved him from the brink of death. Ser Allard may even contribute how he was able to visit with his brother without falling ill after he took the treatment.”

“I don’t know if the king will have time to -”

“I’m sure he would make time for this,” Sansa said firmly.

Tracking Stannis down took some doing, but Sansa and Shireen eventually found him in the armoury. Brienne and Ser Allard had accompanied them on their search, but now they lingered by the door. Brienne was stretching her neck, however, and seemed to be trying to look at everything at once, her eyes darting from the weapons to the armour and everything in between.

“What is it?” Stannis asked, barely looking up from a sword he was examining. His squire was standing nearby, looking as if he were trying to make himself invisible.

Sansa smiled kindly at the squire before squaring her shoulders and meeting Stannis’s eyes.

“Shireen and I were just speaking with Maester Gormon,” she said, “and we agree that the treatment we discovered on Tarth should be spread in King’s Landing as soon as possible. Before the plague comes.”

“Fine,” Stannis said, looking back at the sword, frowning, and picking up another one.

“We will require your help,” Sansa said, touching Stannis’s hand.

He went very still. A moment later he handed the sword to his squire. “This one,” he said to the boy. The squire hurried outside, squeezing past Ser Allard and Brienne. Stannis looked from Sansa to Shireen. “Did Maester Gormon not tell you of the law I have -”

“He told us,” Sansa said. “And the law is a fine idea, but I’m sure both the courtiers and the smallfolk will be more compliant if you were to take the treatment yourself first.”

He crossed his arms. “How so?”

Sansa explained her idea, smiling gratefully at Shireen when she took a step forward and said, “I think you should do it, Father. Please.”

“It will have to be tomorrow,” Stannis said, gesturing for them to follow him as he walked out of the armoury. “I’ve received word from Ser Brynden. The men of the Vale will reach the city this evening, and we will sail north overmorrow.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, all thoughts of bread and plague treatments wiped from her mind. Stannis had said he was expecting the men of the Vale to arrive soon, but she had hoped that he might be wrong. Or that the weather would delay them. She closed her eyes against the heavy, numb sensation that was settling over her chest. “Tomorrow, then.”

“I must go speak to Dale,” Stannis said, coming to a halt a short distance from the entrance to the armoury. “Was there anything else?”

Had Shireen not been there, Sansa would have been tempted to say that there was nothing so that she might retreat and pity herself in private, but she had not forgotten Shireen’s hurt expression from dinner last night. “Will you dine with us again tonight?” Stannis grimaced and looked ready to say no, so Sansa hurriedly went on before he had the chance. “Only it may be our last chance to have an intimate family dinner. I’m sure you intend to invite Lord Redwyne and the small council to dine with you on your last night in the city, don’t you?”

Stannis closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Make the arrangements?”

“Of course,” Sansa said smoothly. “Shireen and I will take care of it.”

Shireen’s eyes brightened, and she nodded.

“Fine,” Stannis said, dropping his hand and looking around as if searching for something.

“And we’ll see you tonight?”

“Yes, yes.” Stannis had caught Ser Barristan’s eye and was gesturing for him to come. Ser Barristan had been speaking to Stannis’s squire a few paces away, but cut the conversation short and walked over to Stannis.

Brienne and Ser Allard both stood up straighter when Ser Barristan approached.

“Ser Barristan,” Sansa said, smiling at him. “Have you met Lady Brienne of Tarth?”

“Perhaps very briefly, my queen. But I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced.”

“She has sworn her sword to me, and has proven herself in battle several times over. She fought with Lord Renly in the Battle of the Blackwater and recently wounded one of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons in the Battle of the Straits of Tarth. Lady Brienne, this is Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“It’s an honour, ser,” Brienne said solemnly, bowing to Ser Barristan.

Sansa smiled sadly to herself, remembering when she had first met Ser Barristan, and Lord Renly had laughed and called him ‘Barristan the Old’.

“The honour is mine, my lady,” Ser Barristan said, returning the bow.

“If you’ve finished,” Stannis said impatiently. “I must find Dale.”

Ser Barristan inclined his head at Sansa, Shireen, and Lady Brienne, and then followed Stannis who was already striding away.

Brienne gazed after Ser Barristan, looking awestruck.

***

Sansa missed tea with Shireen and the other ladies for the second day in a row. Not for a bath this time, but in favour of a private tea with her father. She wanted to spend time with him before he had to go, but she did not think it a good idea for him to come to dinner with Stannis again.

“I hope you understand,” she said, searching her father’s face for any sign of hurt feelings. “You’ll be invited to tomorrow’s farewell dinner, of course.”

“Don’t fret, sweetling,” Father said, nudging the plate of lemon cakes closer to her. “I have spent enough time with His Grace today.”

Sansa took one of the cakes with a bashful smile. “You have?” 

“I was invited to sit in on today’s small council meeting,” her father said, nodding. “I was there when your great-uncle’s message came. His Grace was not best pleased to hear that the men of the Vale are nearly here.”

She hurriedly swallowed her bite, her heart beating a little faster. “Oh?”

“No man is eager to leave home for war,” her father said, his eyes turning melancholy. “I understand him well. I have never wished to leave your mother or Winterfell.” He gave her a sad smile. “Nor do I wish to leave you.”

“Well, you could stay a few more days, could you not?” Sansa said, leaning forward in her seat and looking hopefully into her father’s eyes. “The men from the Vale could probably do with a rest before they must sail into battle.”

“I dare not stay a day longer than absolutely necessary, Sansa,” her father said, his face more serious than she had ever seen it. “If the Others break through the Wall…”

A hairline fracture appeared along the seam of Sansa’s heart, and she closed her eyes against the pain. “I know. I understand.”

There was a moment of silence. Sansa stared at the dreary surroundings in her sitting room in an attempt to distract herself, thinking dully to herself that she would have to redecorate. Queen Selyse’s tastes had been very different from her own.

“Tell me of your day,” Father eventually said, his voice making a valiant attempt at good cheer. “I saw Lord Davos before I came here; he says you are determined to feed the hungry and heal the sick. He is certain there will be so many songs about your good heart by the time the war is finished, the singers will have no inspiration or energy left to praise the soldiers for their valour.”

Sansa blushed. “I am only trying to do what you always said a good lord must,” she said, looking down at her hands.

“And what must a good lord do?”

She glanced up at him. He looked genuinely interested. “A good lord leads by example,” she said quickly. “He cares about his people, and rules justly and with honour.”

Father blinked at her, his eye softening. “And I thought you grew up listening only to your mother and your septa,” he murmured, a small smile touching his lips.

“Courtesy and kindness are important too,” Sansa said. “I haven’t forgotten how to be a lady.” Her blush deepened as she spoke, recent memories of Stannis’s solar desk intruding.

“No,” Father said seriously, though the smile was still there, in his eyes. “You’ve been a lady ever since I can remember. I can’t imagine you’ll ever forget your courtesies.”

“But a queen should be more than a lady, should she not?” Sansa asked, watching her father anxiously for his response.

Father’s expression darkened, and he seemed to look right through her for a moment. “Yes, she should be more,” he said quietly, his eyes still far away. When he came back to himself, he gave her a quick smile. “Weren’t you going to tell me of your day?”

***

To Sansa’s great relief, her dinner with Stannis and Shireen started off without any of the previous evening’s awkwardness. Shireen was eager to talk, and was in full flow about the plans for tomorrow’s spectacle almost as soon as they were all seated. By the time the main course was in front of them - trout baked in clay - she was running fresh ideas past them.

“I thought we could do it in the Great Hall when the petitioners are there,” she said excitedly, her fork halfway to her mouth. “That way there will be both courtiers and smallfolk present to see.”

“That should be fine,” Stannis said, and Sansa nodded in agreement.

“You’ll have to wear something that will allow Maester Gormon easy access to your arm,” Shireen went on, still waving her fork. “If you want the scar to go on your arm, that is.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Shireen went on to tell them that she had spoken to both Maric and Ser Allard about the idea of involving them in the spectacle, and they had both agreed. “Maric is eager to save as many people as possible from going through what he did,” Shireen said, pausing to take a sip of water. “But I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t ask Ella to be there, too?”

Sansa was quick to agree. “That’s a good idea.” She looked at Stannis. “She could make the potion for you, and perhaps you could use the opportunity to mention her dowry?”

He nodded.

“Should we all arrive together?” Shireen went on, naming a few other possibilities.

Stannis continued to pay close attention to Shireen, but while his expressions and contributions to the conversation remained serious and clipped, he did not seem as tense and moody as he had the previous evening. Sansa kept mostly quiet, though she made sure to show her support when Shireen looked to her for approval.

Slowly but surely, Sansa began to relax and breathe more easily. Everything was going well.

Stannis declined the hot, spiced wine that was served after dinner, but did not leave. He stayed while Sansa and Shireen enjoyed their cups, and asked questions when Shireen told them the title of the book she was reading: _When Women Ruled: Ladies of the Aftermath_.

“I’ve heard of it,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Who wrote it again?”

“Archmaester Abelon,” Shireen said quickly.

Sansa tried to recall whether that was one of the books Maester Gormon had made her read, but couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s about the widows who ruled after the Dance of the Dragons,” Shireen said, looking at Sansa.

“Oh, of course.” Sansa _had_ read it. Or at least the parts Maester Gormon had recommended. She remembered reading the chapter about Alys Rivers, the witch queen, and thinking how much Arya would have enjoyed it.

“You prepare for my death in the north, then?” Stannis asked, his face serious but a gleam of amusement in his eyes that Sansa hadn’t seen in what felt like an age. “Practical.”

“No!” Shireen looked horrified. “It’s just interesting. I never knew there had been so many women ruling at one time.”

“Well, whether I die or not, the maesters will likely have another Winter of Widows to write about soon.”

Sansa closed her eyes, grief gripping her tightly, making it hard to breathe. _He’s right. So many have perished already. And so many have yet to die._ “I’m sure you and Father will put a stop to it,” she said, swallowing and doing her best to sound confident for Shireen’s sake. “You will smash the Others and their wights like you smashed Tywin Lannister’s army. And then you will return to us.”

Stannis’s face turned to stone, and his eyes were suddenly very far away. “Perhaps.”

“And we can do what we can here to make sure the grey plague does not make more widows,” Shireen said, her expression determined.

 _Yes,_ Sansa thought, a flicker of hope coming to life in her breast. _We can protect our subjects from the plague and keep them fed and warm._ What point would there be in fighting a war if the people of Westeros were not kept safe while it was being fought?

Turning to look at Shireen, Stannis seemed to come back to himself. He gave Shireen an approving nod, and she smiled in return, her eyes so bright that she seemed to be glowing from within.

A knock broke the spell of Shireen’s smile, and the three of them looked over at the door. “Enter,” Stannis said.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, taking a step inside, his face serious. “Ser Brynden Tully has just now arrived at the Gate of the Gods with an army of men from the Vale.”

Stannis rose to his feet. “I should go speak to Davos,” he said, looking from Ser Barristan to Sansa and Shireen.

“Of course. We understand,” Sansa said, relieved to hear that her uncle was alive and presumably well. She and Shireen both rose to see him to the door, and in the blink of an eye, the two of them were left alone.

“Is it very wrong of me to be sad that the men of the Vale are here?” Shireen asked once they had settled back down to finish their wine.

“If it is wrong, then I am wrong too,” Sansa said, reaching to squeeze Shireen’s hand.

Shireen swallowed and gave a tiny smile, but they both remained silent for a long moment.

“I should like to borrow Archmaester Abelon’s book when you’ve finished with it,” Sansa said, half to fill the silence, half because she really did want to read parts of it again.

“Of course,” Shireen said.

Sansa thought of Johanna Lannister, lending gold to the Crown to rebuild the city after the damage wrought by the Dance of the Dragons, and Samantha Tarly, who founded the Bank of Oldtown. _Would they have done it if their husbands had lived?_ “It’s strange to think of all those ladies, ruling in their lord husbands’ stead, is it not?”

“Strange?” Shireen’s expression was mildly curious. “I don’t really think so.”

“Oh?”

“I know Father was the Lord of Dragonstone, but he was rarely there when I was growing up. Mother was always there. And Great-Uncle Axell was there too, I suppose, but it was Mother who made all the decisions, really.”

Sansa sat very still. Shireen very rarely spoke of her mother, and Sansa wasn’t sure how best to respond.

“She ruled well,” Shireen went on quietly. “Father never complained about how she managed things.” Sadness had crept into her voice and into her eyes. “Only about how she had yet to give him a son.”

The sudden surge of pain in her heart took Sansa by surprise, and she made a small noise. It was barely more than a sharp intake of breath, but enough to catch Shireen’s attention.

“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said, her voice rushed and anxious. “It will be different for you, I’m sure.”

Sansa shook her head quickly. “I’m not worried,” she lied, making herself breathe regularly. “It just - it seems unfair that he should have complained. She gave him you, after all.”

A wet sheen appeared over Shireen’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly and ducked her head.

They did not say very much after that, but shared a long, tight embrace before Sansa retired to her chambers.

Sansa almost decided to sleep in her own bed that night, not trusting herself to keep from bursting into tears the moment she saw Stannis, but in the end she could not bear to rob herself of sleeping next to him. 

They only had this night and the next before he’d be gone. 

She intended to stay up until he came to bed, but made the mistake of lying down to rest her eyes for a moment. The next thing she remembered was the feather mattress dipping with Stannis’s weight, and a hand touching her face, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. But when she woke to a cold bed for the second morning in a row, she told herself it must have been a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos! They mean so much to me, you honestly have no idea!
> 
> Also, I'm sorry about Stannis. :|


	27. The Hour of the Wolf

Sansa wore a frothy gown more suited to a warm summer’s day in the Reach than a dreary winter afternoon in King’s Landing for the spectacle in the Great Hall. It was the only gown her maids could find on short notice that would leave her arms bare, and she did not want to have to get half undressed from one of her usual long-sleeved gowns in order to show off her little greyscale scar. Unfortunately, it displayed rather more of her bosom than she was used to, as well. She wore a warm sable cloak over the gown, hiding the lilac silks from view.

Stannis was not in his usual leather jerkin, instead having put on a loose, long-sleeved linen tunic and a vest of woven gold thread overtop. His expression was one of irritated resignation, and while Sansa would have wished him to look less displeased, she was just grateful he had agreed to the ‘mummer’s farce’ at all, and that he had listened to both her and Shireen’s thoughts and ideas about it. 

Shireen wore her most beautiful gown of deep purple, and her long black hair was brushed to a lush shine, caught in a golden hairnet studded with little diamonds. Her face was calm on the surface, but there was a nervous energy about her nonetheless; the way her eyes kept darting from Sansa, to Stannis, and then sweeping over the Great Hall.

Ser Allard was in his best armour, his white cloak blindingly bright, and Maric was wearing a fine velvet doublet, black as night and embroidered with silver thread. Their faces did not betray much, but they both stood tall and proud and exchanged brief smiles with Davos where he sat at the council table.

Maester Gormon wore his flowing robes, and a most dignified expression. Ella stood by him, neatly dressed in her plain servant’s garb, clutching the cup of potion she had been instructed to make for the king as if she were carrying the crown jewels, her eyes wide and anxious.

While the royal steward announced them all, Sansa looked at the crowd of petitioners by the great oak-and-bronze doors, the lords, knights and ladies standing under the tapestries, and the smallfolk in the gallery. Gold cloaks were scattered around the hall, eyes watchful, and Ser Barristan, Ser Gerald, and Brienne were present, too. It was a larger crowd than Sansa was used to seeing in the Great Hall, but it did not surprise her. The news that the king would be sailing north on the morrow had spread fast, and Sansa was sure many of the petitioners were here because they were eager to catch a glimpse of him before he left.

Sansa’s father and Uncle Brynden had both been given seats at the council table with Davos and the others, and Uncle Brynden smiled widely at her, waving. She gave him a small smile and a wave back. Hopefully she would be able to greet him properly later today. _I will see him at dinner at the very least._

Stannis climbed a few of the steps to the throne, but did not ascend to the top. Instead he stopped and addressed the gathered people.

“As you all know, the grey plague has been spreading through the stormlands of late,” he said without preamble, his voice raised and decisive. “Today I have signed a new law that requires every citizen of King’s Landing to submit to a new treatment that prevents the plague from taking hold. It is a simple, painless treatment, discovered by Queen Sansa, my daughter, Princess Shireen, and the maester of Evanfall Hall during their recent stay on Tarth. They were aided in their discovery by a northern maid in my queen’s service.”

Muttering broke out as Stannis paused to draw breath, and Sansa could see people shifting from foot to foot and looking at one another.

“To prove that this treatment is safe, I will receive it here and now,” Stannis went on in the same raised voice. He began to roll his sleeve up, and the mutters and whispers grew louder and louder, as everyone was clearly wondering why he was doing it.

Maester Gormon, Ella, and Shireen approached him, and though Ella’s hands were trembling, she managed to present her cup to Stannis and curtsey without incident.

Stannis accepted the cup. “This potion is the first part of the treatment,” he said, tipping his head back and swallowing it in three long pulls.

“What does it taste like, Your Grace?” Someone shouted. Sansa suspected Ser Gerald.

“A touch bitter,” Stannis said, his expression stern. “Could use some salt.”

A few people laughed, but mostly there were whispers.

Ella backed away, and Maester Gormon and Shireen approached Stannis in her place. Maester Gormon produced a needle and a jar of vinegar from his voluminous robes, and began the procedure; dipping the needle in the vinegar before pricking Shireen’s greyscale scar with great care.

“Those like my daughter, who survive greyscale as children,” Stannis said while Maester Gormon worked, “are immune to the grey plague. By taking a small piece of her scar and transferring it to my skin, her immunity becomes mine.”

Maester Gormon pricked Stannis’s upper arm with the needle. The Great Hall was so silent as he did this, that Sansa had the sense that everyone present was holding their breath.

“In two or three days time, a small greyscale scar will appear on my arm, and once it is in place, the grey plague will not be able to touch me,” Stannis finished.

The hall erupted into excited whispers again. Sansa waited for a moment before stepping forward, climbing to the step Stannis was standing on.

“My queen has already received the treatment, and will now show you her scar as proof,” Stannis said, his voice ringing out and causing those who had still been whispering to fall silent.

Her heart pounded as the weight of every gaze on the room was suddenly upon her, and she took a deep breath. Unclasping her cloak, she glanced over her shoulder at Stannis, wordlessly asking him to take it from her. His hands rested on her shoulder for a single heartbeat before removing the cloak and its warmth along with it. She fought the urge to shiver as the cold air of the Great Hall nipped at her bare arms, blushing as she was forcefully reminded of the moment when she had stood up from her bath in front of Stannis. 

The whispers started up once again as everyone stared at her. 

Father and Uncle Brynden wore identical looks of discomfort. Jeyne, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa were all smiling however, which made Sansa feel a little better. Ser Gerald winked at her, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“As you can see,” Stannis said, his voice cross, “the scar is small, but clearly present.” He pointed to the small patch of grey, flaky skin on her arm, and then quickly wrapped her in her warm cloak once more, closing the clasp himself. She could see his jaw working as he did, and there was anger in his eyes.

“Ser Allard Seaworth, knight of the Kingsguard, and his brother, Ser Maric Seaworth, will now step forth and tell you all of their experience with the grey plague and its treatment,” Stannis said, beckoning the two Seaworth brothers forth with a curt hand gesture.

He pulled her aside as Maric began to speak, his hand an iron band around her wrist.

“What are you wearing?” he hissed into her ear.

“A gown,” she said, too startled to think of anything else.

“Who gave it to you? Lord Redwyne?” A vein on the side of Stannis’s neck was bulging.

Sansa frowned. “No, my maids found it. What is it? What’s wrong?”

He let go of her hand, the fury in his eyes dimming. “It’s not appropriate.”

“Margaery Tyrell frequently wore gowns in this style when she was here. So did many of the ladies from the Reach. I don’t understand why -”

“They were no more appropriate when they wore them,” Stannis ground out through clenched teeth, his neck and the tips of his ears reddening.

“It was the only gown my maids could find on short notice that would allow me to show my scar,” Sansa said, her stomach squeezing in on itself. “I’m sorry if it offends you.”

“Wear something else to dinner,” Stannis said. “I will not have your father -” He cut himself off, reddening further. “I will not have anyone thinking I expect you to - that I approve of you flaunting your... wares... in this way.”

Sansa was too shocked to answer this with anything but a nod, and Stannis said nothing else.

Eventually, Maric and Allard finished speaking and Stannis stepped forward once again to brusquely announce that the Crown would provide Ella with a sizable dowry - including lands and a keep - in return for her invaluable contribution to the realm, and that the Lord of Tarth would be gifted a ship and a hefty sum of gold. To Sansa’s surprise, he also mentioned lands and incomes that would go to herself and Shireen.

Ella’s overwhelmed, tearful expression touched Sansa’s heart, but it was like sunlight fighting its way through a thick, heavy fog.

The spectacle was over, the Great Hall full of deafening applause, and Stannis was marching up the rest of the steps to take his seat on the Iron Throne. Sansa was unsure whether to stay or go straight to her chambers and lock herself away until it was time for dinner, but was saved from having to make the choice when Lord Paxter came forward, wearing the burgundy and blue of his House.

“Your Grace, your new law and this miraculous treatment is truly to be applauded,” he said, bowing. “But while it is certainly important to keep the good people of King’s Landing from succumbing to the grey plague, I am sure it is equally important to keep them from going hungry.” He held out his hand, clearly meaning for Sansa to come and stand beside him. She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at Stannis’s stony expression, before walking over to him. Lord Paxter smiled at her. “Queen Sansa and I - with His Grace’s permission - therefore intend to deliver good, hearty grain from the rich earth of the Reach to every baker in the city…” 

As Lord Paxter explained how every household in King’s Landing would be given a loaf of bread, Sansa did her best to keep calm and smile. But her stomach was in knots and her heart in her throat. Stannis was staring at her as if she had betrayed him, his eyes accusing and hard.

“... and my men and I will gladly do our duty by our king and queen, and keep the people of King’s Landing safe while King Stannis Baratheon, the Protector of the Realm, fights the land’s most terrible foe. May he be victorious.”

There was more applause when Lord Paxter finished talking, and he bowed again.

“Thank you for that lovely speech, Paxter,” Sansa said in a low voice as they moved to the side, making way for the first petitioner. “The king and I appreciate your generosity.”

“Not at all,” Paxter said, waving her words away. “Will you stay here and observe? I’d be honoured by your company if you intend to stay.”

Sansa did not know what Stannis would do if she stood beside Paxter for the remainder of the afternoon. _Grind his teeth to powder?_ “I’m afraid I have a thousand things to do before dinner,” Sansa said, smiling apologetically. “But I will see you then, will I not?”

“Of course, my queen.”

Shireen shot her a questioning look when she made to leave, and Sansa tried to tell her with her eyes that she shouldn’t worry. _I just can’t stay here for another minute._ She did not look over at her father or Uncle Brynden, but gave Jeyne and the other ladies a wave. They waved merrily back.

Ser Gerald and Brienne both followed Sansa out of the Great Hall.

“My queen,” Ser Gerald said, laughter in his voice. “I beg you, you must wear this gown to dinner.”

A small, rebellious part of her was tempted to do just that, but Stannis had made himself clear. _And I must do as he bids._ The thought stung. “This gown is hardly appropriate for winter,” she snapped. “I will wear the cloth-of-gold.”

“Oh, but I so enjoyed seeing the king’s eyes fall out of his head,” Ser Gerald said regretfully. “You won’t reconsider?”

“Ser Gerald,” Brienne said, a warning in her voice.

“What?” he said, his voice innocent.

“Do shut up.”

***

The Farewell Dinner was a subdued event, especially when Sansa thought back to the Farewell Feast all those months ago, when there had been a pigeon pie, spirited music, and dancing. Shireen had outdone herself with the menu, however, and Lord Paxter had supplied them with plenty of wine.

_So we can all be morose with full bellies._

Stannis had maintained an icy silence all through dinner, only speaking when spoken to, and then only giving the shortest, most disinterested responses. Her father was hardly better, staring at his food in between bites, his face sullen and his eyes far away.

Davos and Shireen were deep in conversation about a book Davos had read while Shireen had been away, and Ser Barristan was listening with interest. Dale seemed to be trying to follow along as well, though his brow was furrowed in confusion.

Lady Marya and Lady Kaelys Seaworth were whispering with each other, while Lady Melara Florent, and Lady Tayla Estermont sat by their husbands looking bored, listening to Lord Florent drone on about taxes. Lord Andrew Estermont looked nearly as bored as his wife.

Lord Varys observed them all with keen eyes, though he pretended well enough to be occupied with his food and drink, a pleased little smile playing on his lips. He caught Sansa’s gaze for a fraction of a heartbeat, and gave a small nod. She nodded in return and hurriedly looked back at the man she was speaking to: Ser Donnel Waynwood.

“So you became Knight of the Gate after my great-uncle?”

“I did, Your Grace,” he said, his cheeks ruddy. Whether it was due to her attention or the wine, Sansa could not say. His nose was too wide for him to be truly handsome, but he had thick hair, earnest eyes, and his courtesies were proper and pleasing, so it was no hardship to converse with him.

“Good lad,” Brynden said genially, sipping his wine. “Knew you had it in you.”

“And now you lead an army?” Sansa went on, admiringly.

“Lord Arryn thought I was the right man for the job,” Ser Donnel said, puffing his chest out.

“Lord Arryn is still a boy,” Paxter said dismissively. “And I heard he was of a sickly disposition.”

“Your information is old,” Brynden said, glaring at Lord Paxter. “Lord Arryn is hale and hearty.”

“Still a boy lord,” Paxter said, unimpressed.

“Well, no matter his age, I’m sure he chose you to lead his army for good reason,” Sansa said, smiling at Ser Donnel. “His Father, Lord Jon Arryn, was a wise man, according to my lord father.” She nodded at her father, but he barely looked up. “And if my cousin takes after him, I would trust his judgment.”

Paxter looked awkward for a moment. “Ah, Your Grace’s cousin…” he mumbled, trailing off into his cup of wine.

“Lord Arryn is very proud to have a royal cousin,” Ser Donnel said, smiling. “He often speaks of wishing to meet you.”

“Perhaps someday I’ll be able to come and visit him,” Sansa said. “Someday when the realm is at peace. My mother tells me the Eyrie is a beautiful place.”

This comment set both Ser Donnel and her uncle off, reminiscing and describing the splendour of the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon, and Sansa listened with interest.

After dessert had been served - a selection of sweet, crumbly fruit tarts - and the dinner guests began to retire, Uncle Brynden asked for a word with her.

“You look well, my dear,” he said, and Sansa could not help but smile at the warmth in his familiar, smoky voice. “But I could swear that you’ve grown.” He peered closely at her.

“Father said so too,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “You’re both wrong; my height hasn’t changed at all.”

“Ah, but I didn’t say you had grown taller.” He gave an enigmatic smile and touched her cheek.

“Will you go with them?” she asked. “To the north?”

“You charged me with protecting your people, not so long ago,” Brynden said, his eyes growing more serious. “I feel I must go where my sword is needed.”

She embraced him. “You really are a true knight, Uncle.” The hug was tight and warm, and her uncle smelled pleasantly of good food, wine, and wood smoke. 

Sansa did not make the mistake of lying down once she had been made ready for bed by her maids. She paced between the twin fireplaces in Stannis’s bedchamber, determined that she would be awake when he came.

It was a long wait, and twice she had almost decided to go look for him, only to change her mind at the last moment. But eventually he appeared, his posture exhausted and his eyes more so.

“Are you well?” she asked, her heart twinging with concern. The frustration and confusion at his behaviour over her gown and his taciturn mood at dinner faded away, tucked into a corner of her mind; not forgotten, but simply not important right now. Stannis would be leaving on the morrow, and Sansa did not wish to spend their last night together arguing.

He had stopped short at the sight of her, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Fine,” he muttered. “You should be asleep.”

“I wanted to wait for you. I meant to wait for you last night, too.” She looked down at her satin slippers.

Stannis said nothing, but began to undress. Rather than stand awkwardly by the fire, Sansa decided to sit on the bed. She did not remove her bed robe or her slippers, unsure of whether she was welcome to stay.

“If you’re here to demand I do my duty as your husband,” Stannis said, throwing his clothing over the back of a chair, “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I’ve had a long day.” There was a note of anger in his voice, half obscured by his exhaustion, but still there.

“You needn’t do anything,” she said, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Save perhaps accept my kisses.” _And allow me to stay._ She could not bear the thought of sleeping by herself tonight.

Stannis walked over to the bed, clad only in smallclothes, and swiftly got under the covers. Sansa decided that as he had yet to ask her to leave, it meant that she could stay. She discarded her robe and slippers and got under the covers with him.

For a long moment they were both still, lying side by side, not touching. Sansa could tell by the way Stannis was breathing that he was nowhere near being asleep. With a loud rustling of bed linens, she shifted to lie on her side, facing him.

“Did you come to bed at all last night?” she whispered, thinking of her dream.

“I did.”

Her spirits rose, and she smiled. “I think I remember. But I thought it might have been a dream.”

Stannis grunted. He was still lying on his back, but his eyes were open, unfocused, and staring up at the canopy.

Shifting closer, Sansa kissed his cheek. It did not seem real that this might be their last night together. He was so solid and real beside her now, that it was difficult to imagine how he might not be. It didn’t matter that she’d been sleeping alone for months and knew exactly what it was like. That was then. This was the present moment, and in her heart she felt as if it was eternal and never ending.

_But it is not. Tomorrow he will be gone._

Shaking, she kissed his cheek again in a slightly different spot, and then continued to pepper his face and neck with soft, lingering kisses.

“Sansa,” he eventually said, his voice strained. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Have you forgotten?” She kissed the little hollow beneath his lower lip; the place that lower down became his prominent chin. “I told you I wanted to kiss you everywhere.”

Some of his tension eased, though it was clear that he was not fully relaxed. She smiled into her next kiss, letting her lips linger on his throat, feeling it move as he swallowed. He was letting her do this.

The next several minutes were silent save for the crackling of the fires in the twin hearths, and Stannis’s occasional sharp intakes of breath.

“Are you ticklish?” she asked teasingly, having found a spot between his ribs that made him take a particularly loud breath and tense up.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

She smiled to herself, but resisted the temptation to start poking mercilessly at him as if he were Arya and they were still children. The memory of rolling around with her sister in the most unladylike of ways, shrieking as they sought out each other’s most ticklish spots with unerring accuracy made her giggle as she continued to kiss her way down his torso, the hairs that grew on his chest and abdomen tickling her nose. Interestingly, the lower she got, the tenser he became. She wondered for a moment whether it was due to being ticklish again, but realised almost as soon as the thought had crossed her mind that she was nearing his groin.

_Perhaps he thinks I mean to make him do his duty despite his protests?_

She lifted her head and looked up at his face. He was not looking at her; his eyes were screwed shut and his jaw was tightly clenched. Her eyes drifted down, and she saw that his hands were fists, desperately clutching the bedclothes. If she weren’t so certain that she could not possibly have been hurting him, she’d be forced to conclude he was in agony.

Biting her lip, Sansa touched the border where the silk of his smallclothes began to cover him from view. “I won’t kiss you here if you don’t want me to,” she said gently.

His eyes flew open, and he stared at her, his face flushing. “It’s - it’s fine.”

“Do you mean I can kiss you here?”

He closed his eyes again, his jaw working. “If you wish,” he muttered awkwardly.

“Would you like to keep this on?” she asked, trailing the tip of a finger along the edge of the fabric.

“You can take it off.” He swallowed. “If you want.”

The silk ties came undone, and the fabric unraveled easily. His manhood was extended and straining, flushed redder than his face and patterned with veins that stood out sharply.

She did not touch it. Neither with her hands or her lips. Instead she found her place on his abdomen, and continued her methodical progression, covering every inch of his skin with slow, soft kisses. She kissed him even where he was hairy, though she avoided the place where the hair grew thickest, curling around his manhood and hiding his testicles.

A deep, humming warmth settled over her, making her limbs heavy and her chest and face tingle, and with every fresh kiss, she sank more completely into the comforting sensation.

Soon his breathing grew loud and ragged, and when she started to kiss her way down his thigh, he made a strangled noise of protest.

She looked up again. “Are you well?”

He choked out a noise that she thought was probably supposed to mean ‘yes’.

Kissing along his inner thigh, she was fascinated to find that it made him tremble. Or perhaps he had tensed up to such an extent that his muscles had started to vibrate? In an attempt to soothe him, she stroked his other thigh lightly, leaving her hand there as she continued towards his knee, drawing idle circles with her fingertips.

Deciding to move quickly down his lower leg, and then back up the other, she did not slow back down until she was above his knee again. Because it was here, above his knee, on the inside of his thigh, where her kisses made him gulp down air as if he were drowning. So she lingered, her insides turning to liquid gold, throbbing between her thighs. She experimented, imagining how what she was doing might feel for her in turn, and guessing what she might like. Holding her breath the first time, she let her tongue dart out to wet his surprisingly soft skin, stretched taut over muscle. The sound he made had her squeezing her thighs together. She did it again and again, her blood heating up and her mind clouding over with desire. 

Then she tried grazing his skin gently with her teeth.

“Sansa, _fuck,_ ” he choked out, his hand suddenly at the back of her head, fingers tangling in her loose hair. He was tugging, not ungently, but very pointedly upwards. Directing her away from his inner thigh and closer to his manhood.

A warm, wet, pulsing throb answered as if it were tugging back from her woman’s place.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and pressed a single soft kiss to the shaft of his manhood, inhaling his musky scent as she did. And then she pulled away, despite the pressure of his hand, looking at his face again. His eyes opened a fraction, squinting at her. His nostrils flared with every breath.

“Do you want me to kiss you here?” she whispered, blushing so hotly that she was sure her skin had to be glowing like embers. The wet, empty feeling between her thighs was overwhelming.

She saw the whites of his eyes for a moment before he squeezed his lids shut again. The grip on the back of her head became tighter, more insistent, and he groaned. His manhood twitched, almost hitting her cheek.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He unclenched, but only a little.

She brought her lips back to his manhood, still blushing hotly. Her heart raced as she realised that she had no idea what he really wanted, but kissing had been working well up until now, so she decided to continue.

She pressed another slow, lingering kiss to the hot skin of the shaft. Her lips were so sensitive that she could feel the ridge of a vein, and without thinking about it, her tongue darted out to map it.

Stannis hissed, his hand tightening briefly in her hair.

Emboldened, Sansa pressed kiss after kiss to him, moving up and down at random, letting her tongue dart out whenever she wished. He had started to squirm beneath her, lifting his hips to chase her mouth whenever she retreated - however briefly - and always keeping a firm hold on the back of her head. 

His movements and his sounds kept sending fresh pulses and aches through her, and soon she was squirming too.

Eventually she dared to kiss the very tip of his manhood, and was startled by the violence of his reaction. His body went rigid, the hand on the back of her head turning to iron. His free hand was suddenly right near her face, but he wasn’t touching her; he was touching himself, pulling the hood of skin back from the tip of his manhood and revealing the head, glistening wet. A clear bead of moisture appeared at the slit as she watched, welling up like a teardrop.

The pounding of her heart slowed as Stannis’s iron grip loosened, and curiosity compelled her to kiss the tip again, tongue darting out to taste the little bead. It was bitter and salty, and put Sansa in mind of the sea.

His groan at this last kiss was a drawn out thing; a deep rumble that turned into something desperate when she pulled back, his hand in her hair twitching, and the hand on his manhood closing around his shaft in a grip that looked painful.

“Should I do that?” she asked, touching his hand lightly. The heat between her thighs was spiking, excitement crackling in her veins.

He blew out a very loud breath, then moaned a very clear, “ _yes._ ” His hand fell away, and she wrapped her own around his shaft in its place, stroking him idly in the same way she had on the morning after their wedding night.

He made a strangled noise of pleasure, and moved his hips in time with her hand, thrusting rhythmically.

Sansa bit her lip, pressing her thighs together again, though it did nothing to satisfy the familiar, empty ache that was crying out for attention. But though it was frustrating, there was also pleasure in this warm sense of anticipation, and she gave a little moan of her own as she moved to kiss the tip of his manhood again.

He hissed out a string of words that made her blush, his hips lifting almost entirely off the bed. If she did not know any better, she would have thought he was trying to put himself all the way into her mouth.

She gave a small, surprised laugh. “What are you -”

As soon as she parted her lips to speak, he pressed his manhood in between them. It didn’t go very far into her mouth as she pulled back, her hand falling away from him. 

“ _No_ ,” he protested wildly, his breathing frustrated and shallow. The grip on the back of her head tightened again, and his free hand wrapped around his shaft, guiding it back towards her lips.

She didn’t understand why, but he seemed determined that she should open her mouth and let him in. Blushing hotly from her chest to her face, her woman’s place pulsing and making her want to writhe, she decided to simply do it, thinking vaguely of how they deepened their kisses by delving into each other’s mouths with their tongues. 

He groaned loudly in clear relief when she took the tip of his manhood into her mouth, feeling and tasting it with her tongue. Their hands switched places so that she was holding him again, stroking up and down in that way he seemed to like, and she continued to kiss the tip of him wetly, taking him deeper into her mouth and sliding her tongue over and around him; devouring him like Stannis sometimes tried to devour her mouth.

The sounds he was now making - guttural moans and gasps - sent powerful jolts of desire through her, and the heat between her thighs was rapidly becoming more unbearable than pleasant. His hips were moving rhythmically again, and the fingers he had tangled in her hair were shaking.

Suddenly her shuddered, convulsing, and he tugged her head off and away with a small panicked sound. Something blood-warm and wet painted her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see a stream of viscous, milky seed running down from the slit of his manhood, over her fingers where they encircled his shaft.

She let go of him and sat up, bringing her wet hand up to examine the rapidly cooling seed. She could feel it on her cheek too, and with her clean hand, she wiped it off. Touching it was very odd, slippery and sticky and… _is there always so much of it?_

Stannis’s breathing was becoming more normal, and she looked at his face. His eyes were closed, but his face was as flushed as if he’d been running flat out.

Wiping her hands on the bedding, she shifted to lie down next to him, pulling the covers over them both. She tried to lie still, but it was no use. She kept squirming. What she really wanted to do was straddle one of his thighs, but it didn’t seem right to do that while he was… resting.

“Be still,” he muttered after a while, sounding irritated.

“I can’t,” she said, pouting against his neck. She knew he was tired. And she knew she had promised all he had to do was accept her kisses, but her body was on fire, and she _needed_ him.

“Of course you can,” he scoffed. “It’s simple: you just stop moving.”

“Well, I don’t want to.” She reached for his hand and tugged it towards her woman’s place. “I want you to touch me. Please.”

She was bare beneath her silk nightgown, and Stannis did not resist as she placed his hand where she needed it, parting her thighs eagerly to give him access.

“Seven fucking hells,” he said, his voice coming out in a startled rush. “You’re soaked,” he added in a hoarse whisper. His fingers were exploring her folds, but he was also branching out to stroke the insides of her thighs.

She whimpered needily, and tried to chase his fingers by moving her hips.

He rolled over to lie half on top of her, kissing her deeply and pressing four fingers flat against her precisely as firmly as she wanted him to. She bucked up and rubbed herself against his fingers, almost sobbing into his mouth with relief.

Stannis moved to kiss and suck on her neck, his breath hot and his tongue sending little sparks though her. But those sparks were nothing to the inferno he was stoking with his hand, and soon she was crying out and shaking with pleasure.

When he took his hand away, she almost screamed at him. But she stopped herself when she realised he was pushing her nightgown up, up and up, until he’d revealed her breasts and everything below. He wasted no time taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and making her scream after all. A quick, high-pitched, startled thing.

He raised his head, frowning at her. “Are you well?”

“Yes, yes, don’t stop, please,” she babbled.

He sucked the other nipple into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue. She squirmed impatiently, wanting his hand back where it had been, but he had wriggled his fingers underneath her, and was currently squeezing her left buttock instead.

In a clear imitation of what she had done earlier, he kissed his way down from her breasts, over her abdomen, and all the way to the patch of red curls that grew over her woman’s place. They were hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left her heart pounding, and he did not hesitate before pressing several such kisses right between her legs. The contrast of his warm, wet tongue and the scratchiness of his bristly beard made her arch her back and whimper.

He lingered just long enough to make her think that she would go mad if something _more_ did not happen soon, and then he retreated.

“Please,” she begged, “don’t stop.”

But he was lying down on his back beside her, not listening.

“Here,” he said, his voice deep and almost unrecognisable. He tugged on her, and this time it did not take her long to figure out what he wanted.

Straddling him the way she had all that time ago in his solar, she rubbed herself against his naked manhood, hard and ready once again. They had both been wearing a lot of clothes in the solar the last time, so the sensations were much more powerful now that there was nothing between them. She was moving so eagerly and so quickly that she could barely catch her breath, trying to chase her stars.

After a while he put his hands on her hips, stilling her. He tugged her upwards, and she frowned in confusion, but rose up on her knees regardless. Her frown disappeared when she saw that he was using the space to line his manhood up with her entrance.

As soon as the head of his manhood was inside her, she sank down slowly, her lips parted in a silent ‘oh’. 

_Gods, oh gods, oh gods…_ “It’s not going to fit,” she moaned. She had thought she’d felt full when he’d taken her over his desk, but this angle was stretching her very oddly, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Shifting around, she leaned forward a bit, and managed to sink the rest of the way down, despite what she’d said.

There was a moment of stillness where all she could hear was their laboured breathing while her insides throbbed. His hands - still on her hips - grabbed her a little more tightly, and she opened her eyes to see him staring up at her. His eyes looked very dark in the dim light of the room, 

Her nightgown had fallen down to cover her breasts again, and this did not seem to please him. It didn’t really please her either as she was overheated and beginning to sweat. She quickly pulled the thin silk up and over her head, and threw it on the floor. 

Stannis’s hips jerked upwards, one of his hands sliding from her hip to her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple. A pulse of pleasure ran through her at that, and the urge to move overtook her.

Sansa had never been a particularly good rider of horses, but after a few more experimental shifts to get the angle right, she began to think that she might very much like to become good at _this._ It was more work than when Stannis was on top of her, and the muscles of her thighs soon began to complain, but she could not help but enjoy the way she could decide whether to go faster or slower, and how she could wiggle around until she brushed up against him in just the right way every time she moved.

Having him inside her like this was satisfying and maddening at the same time. On one hand, this was _exactly_ what her body had been craving and crying out for, but on the other hand it was not enough.

She sped up, needing more, needing to _finish,_ but found that she had trouble getting herself over the edge.

Stannis seemed content to let her find her way and remained mostly still, though his hands were constantly on the move. He touched her face, her breasts, her waist and her hips, and every time she opened her eyes to look, he was staring up at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

When she grew tired, she leaned all the way forward so that she could kiss him, slowing her movements until they were no more than lazy undulations. He kissed her back, licking into her mouth and burying his hands in her hair.

 _Oh…_ Slow. Slow was good.

Perhaps it was because she had been right on the edge for so long, but there was something about these close, dragging movements, soft and intimate, that started her shuddering. She moaned into the kiss as a powerful wave of pleasure radiated from her centre and out to her limbs, leaving her glowing.

Stannis rolled them over while she was still shaking, drove himself in deep with a few firm thrusts, and then he was groaning, the noise muffled because he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Time became meaningless for a while, and Sansa wasn’t sure whether she had fallen asleep or not. But she found herself in Stannis’s arms at some point, held tight and close, their fingers intertwined.

“I love you,” she whispered, dropping her heart into the darkness, hoping Stannis was there to catch it.

***

It was still dark when Sansa woke up to the mattress moving beneath her, and a gust of cold air.

“Stannis?”

“Sleep a little longer if you wish,” Stannis’s voice said. “It is still the hour of the wolf. But I have a lot to do, and the tide waits for no man.”

“Don’t go,” she said, her voice raspy with sleep.

“I must.”

“We’ve not had time to talk,” she said, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“What do you wish to discuss?” he asked, his tone impatient.

The hundred different things she wanted to speak to him about ran through her mind in a chaotic stream, but none of them felt important enough to keep him from going about his duties. There was only the biggest, most painful question, and she was not sure she could bring herself to ask it. _But if I don’t ask him now, will I ever have another chance?_

“Do you lo- are you angry with me?” She closed her eyes in frustration. _Why can’t I just ask him?_

Stannis blew out a loud breath. “Why would I be angry?” He was putting yesterday’s clothes on, his hands working methodically.

“Because I’m not with-”

“Because you’ve crawled into bed with the Tyrells and the Redwynes as surely as if you were just another useless, preening peacock of the Reach?” Stannis said scathingly, cutting her off. “You even dressed like them before all the court.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. “That’s not -”

“If I had wanted the Tyrells and Redwynes at my table or in my bed, I would have married Lady Margaery.”

She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes. Had he struck her, she was not sure the pain would be worse. When she opened her eyes, the words were already coming out of her mouth in a flare of hurt anger. “And if I’d had the sense to marry a true knight like I always wanted, I would have married her brother.”

It was a baseless, useless thing to say, but the words were out now. Ringing in the silent chamber.

Stannis’s jaw was clenched tightly shut when he turned his back on her. “I have to go.”

She said nothing. Her eyes were burning, and there was a hard lump in her throat. She knew that if she so much as drew a breath to speak, the sound would betray her.

He paused at the door, and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to turn around and apologise. But he did not even glance over his shoulder.

She cried for a long time after the door closed behind him.

***

After a quiet breakfast with her father and Uncle Brynden, all three of them too lost in their own thoughts to converse properly, the time came to dress for the farewell.

Icy winds were blowing, though there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and Sansa wore her warmest gown in Stark greys and whites, her dark sable cloak overtop.

The King’s Landing retinue stood huddled together down by the harbour, where they could see the small boat that would ferry Stannis to the flagship, as well as the flagship itself where it stood patiently at anchor.

“Did Stannis say good-bye to you?” Sansa asked, hoping that Shireen would not be able to see that she had spent the early hours of the morning crying her eyes out.

Shireen nodded. “We had breakfast together with the Seaworths.”

Sansa’s heart lightened by a fraction, and she attempted a smile. “Good. I was worried he’d forget to eat.”

“Lady Marya managed to tempt him with some porridge,” Shireen said. “Though she was mostly fussing over her sons.” 

Marya’s two youngest sons would be staying, and Ser Allard would remain as well. But the other four were sailing north today. 

Sansa glanced over at Jeyne, crying in Devan’s arms. His face was grief-stricken, but his grief was tempered with determination. “They need every sword they can get,” he was saying sadly. “But I will return, my darling. Before you know it.” Jeyne’s only response was to sob harder.

Lady Marya was not crying. She was standing beside Davos, pale and stoic, and bundled up in thick furs against the wind. Davos was watching Jeyne and Devan with a tired, sad look in his eyes.

When Stannis, her father, Uncle Brynden, Ser Barristan, Dale, and Ser Donnel arrived, riding enormous destriers that snorted and tossed their heads, the gathered crowd cheered deafeningly as they thundered through the streets. They were dressed sensibly for the weather, but wearing impressive cloaks. Stannis’s cloak was the most impressive of all: black velvet with a shining, cloth-of-gold lining that caught the eye as the fabric snapped in the wind. The horses came to a halt not far from where Sansa was standing, and the men dismounted. They were all meant to board Dale’s magnificent flagship together, which was to be the last to weigh anchor. The other ships had already departed, and could be seen growing smaller as they raced towards the horizon.

Stannis walked towards her, and she stared at him, unsure of what to expect.

His eyes flashed as he took her hand in silence, bending over it to grace it with a courtly kiss. 

The crowd cheered more loudly still, the noise crashing over her like a wave. _Would they cheer if they knew what he’d said? What I said?_

The row of gold cloaks guarding the Red Keep’s retinue shifted their stances in response to the noise, clearly displeased by the rowdy, pushy crowd. Sansa did not think her subjects would cause her harm, however. Their cheers were joyful, and some were holding loaves of bread aloft.

_The bakers must have left their beds as early as Stannis did._

Without a word, Stannis walked over to Shireen to kiss her brow. Davos and Marya and everyone else received nods before he stalked off towards the small boat.

Father approached her next, embracing her tightly. “It will all be well,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

Sansa blinked back fresh tears, breathing slowly through her nose. “I love you, Father.”

Uncle Brynden’s embrace was just as tight. “Don’t you worry, my dear. We’re going to keep you safe.”

She smiled into the crook of his neck. “I know. Thank you.”

Ser Donnel gave her a respectful bow from where he was standing, but Ser Barristan approached her.

“Farewell, Your Grace,” he said seriously, his eyes meeting hers.

“Farewell, ser,” she returned, trying to express with her eyes alone how much his guidance and friendship had meant to her during her stay in King’s Landing. He was about to move away when she found herself taking a step closer to him to whisper one last request. “Please take care of him. Keep him safe.” She knew that as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard he was sworn to do this, but she didn’t care.

“I shall, my queen.” His words had a comforting weight to them, and despite knowing that nothing was certain, Sansa was reassured.

Much too soon, the men were all in the small boat, and a blink of an eye later, the great flagship was moving, wind filling its golden sails.

It hurt to see the ship move further and further away, knowing that Stannis was leaving, and leaving with so much unsaid between them. Her heart seemed to have been torn from her, and she felt as if she were watching _it_ sail away. Would it still have been this painful, had Stannis been able to reassure her of his feelings like she had hoped? Would it have hurt more or less if they had not argued in the black of the night?

Ser Gerald shifted from foot to foot behind her. “It’s colder than the Night King’s cock out here,” he muttered.

“Shh,” Brienne hissed.

“And I never did find out what they named the bleeding ship,” he kept on, ignoring Brienne’s venomous glare.

“I know its name,” Shireen said, looking away from the sea and facing Ser Gerald. “Dale told me at breakfast. There was going to be a ceremony, but there wasn’t time.”

Ser Gerald raised his eyebrows. “Well? What’s it called then, Your Grace?”

“ _Queen Sansa_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos - you guys are the true knights!
> 
> I had something like [this gown](https://sarahtheblack.tumblr.com/post/635476949868871681) in mind when I was thinking of the lilac silks Sansa wore for the "spectacle".
> 
> Also, today is my husband's birthday! Yay!


	28. Guest Rights

“Maester Gormon, have you received any ravens from the Wall or Winterfell since yesterday’s meeting?”

Sansa looked from Davos to Maester Gormon, not quite holding her breath, but not quite breathing, either.

Maester Gormon shook his head. “No, my lord.” He glanced at Sansa and Ser Rolland Storm - Captain of the City Watch - both sitting in on this small council meeting though they were not usually invited. “There has been nothing since I received word that the king arrived safely at Eastwatch. I suspect they’re conserving the birds for only the most vital of messages.”

The other members of the small council muttered about the reliability of ravens and the weather, but Sansa ignored their voices, closing her eyes. Disappointment stuck in her throat like stale bread, and she swallowed a few times, trying to get rid of the sensation. Despite weeks of silence, a part of her kept hoping that Stannis would write her a letter. Tell her how sorry he was about what he’d said, and that he was thinking of her. Missing her.

“Would you believe he’d written it? If you were to receive such a letter?” Jeyne had asked, raising a brow, when Sansa had confided in her.

 _Probably not,_ Sansa admitted to herself.

She had started several letters of her own. Some full of accusations and anger - those had been written shortly after he left - and some pleading ones, asking him to help her understand why he’d said what he’d said. Why he kept distrusting her when all she had ever done was try to support and love him as a wife should. Sometimes she just wrote of the things that were happening in the city, or about Shireen.

She had burned them all.

“... been a rough few weeks, I won’t lie.” 

Ser Rolland, was giving a report now, and Sansa opened her eyes and tried to pay attention. His voice was just as raspy as when Sansa had first overheard him speaking to Ser Gerald all those years ago on Dragonstone, but much more serious. His eyes were hard and flinty, and there was no trace of amusement on his weathered, pockmarked face. “When the grey plague started to spread, and those packs of ingrates started protesting the treatment that the king made law, the City Watch was near overwhelmed. We had to -”

“It was a good thing my men were able to lend you aid,” Paxter interrupted in a self satisfied voice. He had been given a temporary seat on the small council, filling in for Dale while he was away.

Lord Florent, swelling like an angry frog, made himself likely to speak next, but Ser Rolland glared at him so fiercely that he closed his mouth.

“We had to make several arrests, and we’re still holding a few of the idiots in the dungeons for disturbing the king’s peace,” Ser Rolland went on as if Paxter hadn’t interrupted, “but the smallfolk seem to have settled down for the most part. They’ve seen now that the treatment works. There’s still the matter of Flea Bottom, but if you’ll allow me to continue the measures I’ve put into place...”

Sansa knew she should be more upset about how it had all happened. They hadn’t been able to spread the treatment quickly enough to prevent an outbreak, and the riots that followed had been frightening. But working with Shireen to calm the smallfolk after the worst of the riots had passed had given her something meaningful to do. Something much more important than dwelling on her broken heart, and her disappointed hopes of hearing from Stannis. It had been good to feel useful. To listen to the people’s fears and complaints, to pray with them, and encourage them.

“... and that’s all I have to report for now,” Ser Rolland finished.

Davos nodded. “Thank you.” He looked over at Sansa as Ser Rolland sat down. “My queen, you said you wished to say a few words?”

Sansa nodded and got up from her seat, gathering her thoughts.

“My lords, thank you for inviting me to sit in on this meeting. And thank you for all your hard work during these trying times,” she said, acknowledging them all with a nod. “As you know, Princess Shireen and I have been visiting the Great Sept of Baelor and the treatment houses every day since it’s been safe for us to do so, and I can confirm that Ser Rolland speaks true: the smallfolk have settled down.” She took a deep breath. “I know it was a disappointment when the grey plague spread to King’s Landing despite all of our efforts, but we must not forget how many lives we have been able to save due to Princess Shireen’s treatment. Even despite the riots and the unrest.” She paused again, looking at the serious, pale faces that watched her in silence. “When this very same plague swept through Oldtown many years past, it took half the city. _Half_. We, on the other hand, have lost only a very small fraction.” There was a murmur of appreciation. “And we have kept them from starving,” she added. _So far_. “The smallfolk are afraid, and weary of war and winter and illness, but they are safe thanks to all of you. And thanks to all of you, they know they have not been abandoned.”

Nearly all of the small council members sat up a little straighter, and Paxter smiled proudly.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Maester Gormon said. “I have been writing to the Seneschal of the Citadel, and he has agreed that the maesters of the realm should be taught to make use of the treatment. Here, I think I have his letter...” He began to rummage in the pockets of his robes.

 _Finally,_ Sansa thought. She and Shireen had wanted to spread the treatment much sooner - to help those suffering in the stormlands and the crownlands - but Maester Gormon insisted that the Seneschal should be consulted, and Davos had agreed. Waiting, he had said, would be the wiser course of action while Prince Doran Martell’s intentions were so uncertain.

“When will the maesters be told of the treatment?” Davos asked, his brow furrowed.

“Hard to say,” Maester Gormon said, still rummaging. “This treatment depends on the availability of people like the princess. We were only able to find a handful of greyscale survivors here in King’s Landing, and they have been working night and day. Indeed, even the princess has been working herself to the bone! So we can hardly afford to lend them out. The maesters in other parts of the realm will have to start by locating their own greyscale survivors, and who can say how long that might take?” He stopped searching his pockets. “I must have left it in my chambers,” he muttered.

Davos nodded, but still looked troubled. He glanced at Varys. “Was there no fresh news to be had of Dorne?”

Varys had given a long report at the start of the meeting, speaking in exhausting detail about the trouble the Ironborn were giving the people on the western shores, and giving a disturbing account of a war that had broken out in Meereen between ‘The Great Masters’ and a large number of slaves. Or possibly free men that used to be slaves; Sansa wasn’t sure. But she could not recall him saying much of anything about Dorne.

“My little birds in the south have not been singing, Lord Hand,” Varys said, his face a mask of regret. “I fear some of them may have succumbed to the plague…”

Before Davos could respond to this, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Davos said.

The door opened, and Steffon Seaworth stepped inside, looking flushed with exercise. “Father,” he said, a little out of breath. The ten year old was tall for his age, and wore his page’s garb well. “A ship’s been sighted. Highgarden’s rose on the sails.”

Everyone looked at Paxter.

“That will be the provisions I asked of Mace,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Excellent.”

Sansa did not clap her hands together, but a profound relief swept through her at the news. _Thank the gods._ It had been no easy thing, keeping the people of the city fed through everything that had been happening, and Sansa knew severe rationing measures would have been on the horizon of Lord Tyrell had not been so obliging. Lord Florent had sent word to Essos, of course, but Sansa had no idea when to expect anything from across the Narrow Sea.

“I don’t believe we negotiated a price for these provisions,” Lord Florent said snippily. “If you think the Crown will be forced into paying some absurd -”

“I’m sure Lord Tyrell will accept a reasonable payment, Lord Florent,” Davos said, sounding tired.

***

Sansa was working in Stannis’s solar when the next bit of news regarding the ship from Highgarden reached her ears.

“The party from the ship just arrived, Your Grace,” Alynna said, having knocked and poked her head inside. “I heard someone say Lord Tyrell was with them.”

“Mace?” Sansa said, putting her pen down and resisting the urge to sigh. _Must I now attempt to keep both Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne happy while they do everything in their power to gain more influence at court?_ At this rate, Stannis would return from the Wall to find the Red Keep had turned green. A small, angry part of her thought it would serve him right.

Alynna shrugged. “I just thought you should know. Will you give a dinner?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, though the thought of dining with Mace did not bring her much joy. _But he is a guest,_ a voice that sounded very much like Septa Mordane said inside her head. _And guests deserve to be treated with courtesy and respect._ “I should speak to the royal steward.”

“I think I saw him head to the Maidenvault a little while ago,” Alynna said. “Do you want me to look for him and send him your way?”

“No,” Sansa said, rising to her feet. “I could do with a walk.”

Alynna accompanied Sansa on her search, and Brienne followed them both.

“Where is Ser Gerald?” Sansa asked, mostly to see how Brienne would react to the question.

Brienne’s lips twitched. “I expect he’s icing his buttocks.”

Alynna covered her mouth with a hand, stifling an amused sound.

Sansa managed to keep from smiling. “Oh?” she asked politely.

“Mishap in the training yard, Your Grace.”

“Was the mishap challenging you to a sparring match?” Sansa pursed her lips. “ _Again?_ ”

Alynna’s shoulders were shaking now.

Brienne’s lovely blue eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief. “Perhaps.”

Allowing herself a brief smile, Sansa shook her head.

As they were about to round the final corner before reaching the entrance to the Maidenvault, voices carried over to them. Sansa recognised the royal steward’s voice and quickened her step. But she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the man he was talking to.

“Willas?” she said, astonished.

Willas, who had been listening to something the royal steward had been saying and nodding, looked up at the sound of his name. He wore mud-splattered travelling clothes and a cloak, his softly curling brown hair wind-tousled. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

“Your Grace,” he said, not sounding nearly as surprised as she had. He gave a bow, his hand tightening on his cane. “The light of your radiance has only brightened since last I saw you.”

Alynna shot Sansa a sidelong glance that she ignored.

“Thank you, my lord. You are as charming as ever,” she said, smiling though her stomach was tightening and squirming. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I hope I am not unwelcome,” Willas said, a worried frown touching his lips, his eyes concerned.

Sansa did not know how to answer this. The disappointment she had suffered due to Willas’s failure to ask for her hand no longer weighed on her heart, but the argument she’d had with Stannis before he’d sailed north was still fresh in her mind. _Stannis would not want him here. Especially not after what I said._ The memory of that exchange still stung, and a nauseating surge of anger and guilt rose up to her throat.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with feigned lightness, fighting to keep her emotions under control. “Are you acquainted with Lady Alynna Estermont?”

“No, I have not had the honour of being introduced.”

Sansa made the introductions, and then introduced Brienne, eager to keep Willas’s gaze off herself for as long as possible while she collected herself. _Why has he come here? What does he hope to accomplish?_ Had Mace Tyrell sent him in his own stead to increase House Tyrell’s influence at court? Or did Willas have some agenda of his own? Had he come to search for a wife? Sansa’s stomach continued to squirm, and she closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Brienne of Tarth?” Willas furrowed his brow as if concentrating. “My brother Loras has spoken of you, my lady. You swore your sword to Lord Renly Baratheon before swearing it to Her Grace, did you not?”

Brienne’s eyes widened, but then she nodded tightly.

“He said you were very skilled,” Willas said graciously, before looking at Sansa. “You are fortunate, my queen.”

“I know,” she said, sending Brienne a small smile. Brienne did not return it, but some of her tension seemed to ease. Sansa looked back at Willas. “I assume you’re being given suitable chambers in the Maidenvault with your uncle?” Her eyes went briefly to the steward who nodded from his place left of Willas’s shoulder.

“I’m being well looked after, Your Grace,” Willas said with a smile that appeared quite sincere.

_But is he truly sincere, or is he simply proficient at feigning sincerity?_

“Have you made any dinner arrangements, my lord?” Alynna asked with another sidelong glance at Sansa.

“I hadn’t thought -” 

“You must join me and Princess Shireen at our table this evening. And your lord uncle, as well,” Sansa said quickly, doing her best to keep smiling politely. Guilt ate at her insides as she considered the look on Stannis’s face if he could hear her. Gods, he’d be furious… _But he isn’t here. And this is the courteous thing to do._

Willas’s face lit up with genuine pleasure. “Truly? I’d be honoured, my queen.” He inclined his head respectfully.

Sansa’s stomach flipped over at his delighted smile, and she hurriedly made her excuses.

Alynna kept silent for an entire minute once they’d taken their leave of Willas, walking back towards Maegor’s Holdfast. “‘The light of your radiance has only brightened’!” she said in a poor imitation of Willas’s voice, her eyebrows raised.

“Hush,” Sansa said. “He meant nothing by it, I’m sure.”

Alynna made an unconvinced sound, but said nothing. 

“Her Grace is most likely right,” Brienne spoke up. “I spent a lot of time with Ser Loras Tyrell when I was Lord Renly’s sworn sword. He would say things like that to me. I know he cannot have meant them.”

“Don’t say that; you don’t know that he didn’t mean them,” Alynna said loyally.

Now it was Brienne’s turn to make an unconvinced sound.

Saddened for Brienne, and still plagued by guilt, Sansa stayed quiet as her two companions bickered. 

Was it a betrayal to be relieved that she would be dining with Willas rather than Mace tonight? All she wanted was to be a gracious hostess, but Willas’s compliment - sincere or not - had been lovely, and the prospect of spending an evening in his company, whatever his motives were, was far from terrible.

_But then why do I feel so awful?_

***

“I hope your tasters have girded up their loins,” Ser Gerald said, walking a touch gingerly beside Sansa as she made her way up to Ser Aron Santagar’s chambers in the highest tower of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“What do you mean, ser?”

“Dinner with a Tyrell and a Redwyne tonight, I hear?” he said with a grin. “You’re tempting fate, Your Grace.”

Sansa closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “My tasters will be fine. There’s no proof any Tyrell or Redwyne has poisoned anyone. Paxter has been here for weeks and I’ve not come to harm.”

“But you’re still using your tasters, aren’t you?” Ser Gerald asked with a shrewd look.

“Of course I am,” Sansa said curtly. “I always do.” It was something Stannis had insisted on ever since their betrothal had been announced.

“Good. Because I happen to agree with His Grace when it comes to House Tyrell.” Ser Gerald’s voice had become uncharacteristically serious, and it both gave Sansa pause and irritated her. “They’re not to be trusted.”

“Never?” Sansa asked, shaking her head. “They are to be distrusted until the Others take us, and never even given an opportunity to prove that they might in fact be trustworthy?”

“Your Grace -”

Sansa looked briefly at the ceiling. “No, don’t answer that. Whether you like it or not, I will show Paxter and Willas the courtesy they are owed as the Crown’s allies, and honoured guests.” Her face was too hot, and her insides squirmed. “Now hold your tongue, ser, or I will ask Lady Brienne to stop going so easy on you in the training yard.”

This earned a guffaw of laughter.

Ser Aron was reading when she came upon him, and did not bother to stand up when she entered his chambers. His rooms were comfortably appointed, but she did not blame him for forgetting his courtesies. For all that it was a gilded one, his surroundings were still a cage.

“Good afternoon, ser,” she said, taking the seat opposite his without waiting to be asked. Ser Gerald remained near the door, quietly fading into the background.

“Your Grace,” Ser Aron said stiffly. His eyes were still on the page of his book, but they weren’t moving.

“How are you today?”

“Same as yesterday.”

 _’Well enough for a prisoner.’_ She gave him a sympathetic smile, and there was a long awkward silence. 

“Would you like to play a game of cyvasse?”

He sighed, putting his book to the side. “I suppose.”

They played quietly for the most part. He was much better at the game than she was, but she managed to surprise him occasionally.

“Why do you visit me, Your Grace?” Ser Aron asked abruptly several moves into the game, frowning at her from across the board. “I know nothing of Prince Doran’s plans. He would not answer my letters. I am of no use to him or to you.”

“I remember what it was like,” Sansa said after a moment’s consideration, examining the pieces on the board without glancing at his face. “During the war with the Lannisters I was of no use to anyone either. Father was constantly putting me out of harm’s way, and though I was no prisoner, I was not quite free to roam where I pleased, either.” She pursed her lips. “I had my septa, my sister, and my friend Jeyne, but it was still horribly boring sometimes.”

Ser Aron gave a short laugh. “Boring indeed.” His face became more serious. “And what about after the war was won? During the trials and the executions? Were you bored then?” His gaze drilled into her, searching and examining.

“I try not to think about it,” Sansa said honestly. It had been an unpleasant, confusing time in her life, and everything had been so much better once she had made it back to Winterfell.

He leaned closer to her, placing his elbows on his knees. “But you do know that Prince Doran is most wroth with your father and King Stannis over the way they handled the trials and executions of Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane, don’t you?”

“He is?” All Sansa could recall about Gregor Clegane’s trial and subsequent execution was a profound feeling of relief. After what she had seen at the tourney King Robert had held in honour of her father, and after what Sandor Clegane had told her, it had seemed like the world was better off without the Mountain. As for Tywin Lannister... 

No one had ever said his fate had been anything but just.

“Yes!” Ser Aron exclaimed, sitting up straight again and throwing his hands up. “Prince Doran waited _years_ for proof of who was responsible for his sister’s murder and the murder of her children. When your father and husband finally managed to get Jaime Lannister to spill his family’s darkest secrets, dooming his sister, his father, his brother… _himself,_ they did not fail to extract the names of Elia Martell’s killers, nor did they fail to confirm on whose orders they acted!”

“Surely that should have pleased Prince Doran?” Sansa said, confused. “They were tried and executed for their crimes. Justice was done.” Father had not been _happy_ that day, but Sansa remembered the look in his eyes when he’d spoken of it, explaining parts of it to her and Arya. It had been the look of a heavy weight lifted; a long-held wound finally closed.

Ser Aron shook his head. “The king’s justice did not satisfy Prince Doran’s thirst for vengeance. Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane should have given to House Martell to deal with as they saw fit.”

Sansa blinked at him, and then down at the cyvasse board. “I’m sorry to hear the prince was displeased.”

With a sigh, Ser Aron scrubbed his face with one hand. “It was no fault of yours, my queen.”

 _Only my father’s fault. And my husband’s._ But how were they to know that Prince Doran would be so wroth? _Even when Stannis is trying to do the right, just thing, he seems to make enemies, not friends._

Hesitantly, she moved one of her light horse pieces. “Your turn, ser.”

Ser Aron stared at the board and then at her. “You must have more important things to do with your time than this.” He looked tired.

“There is nothing more important than an honoured guest.” She let her eyes slide over to Ser Gerald as she said this, her voice becoming pointed.

_And I will treat all of my guests the same way. With dignity and courtesy. No matter what sort of history Stannis may or may not have with them._

***

“We are fortunate men, are we not, Uncle?” Willas said shortly after he and Paxter arrived for dinner. He had greeted both Sansa and Shireen with courtly kisses to the back of their hands, and was wearing a handsome, forest green doublet, subtly embroidered with the finest gold thread Sansa had ever seen. It was gossamer thin, and must have been wielded by a seamstress of great skill. “To be invited to dine with such beautiful ladies?”

Shireen blushed, but Sansa made do with a smile. “Wine, my lords?”

“Certainly,” Paxter said jovially, accepting a cup from a servant.

They chatted about inconsequential things as they took their seats and the servants brought the first course to them; the conditions at sea during Willas’s journey, the weather in general, and everyone’s health.

Speaking of their health led naturally to the subject of the grey plague, and Shireen asked Willas whether it had spread to the Reach.

“Father had started to hear rumours of people falling ill near Horn Hill when I left Highgarden,” Willas said, his expression turning serious, his full attention on Shireen. “But no proper reports.” His eyes warmed, honey-brown and sweet. “Thank you, Your Grace, for being so kind as to enquire.”

Shireen blushed again, and suddenly seemed to find her chestnut soup deeply fascinating.

“We’ve been fighting an outbreak here in King’s Landing,” Sansa said, wondering whether Shireen had any idea how close she had come to being betrothed to Willas before Tommen Lannister had been chosen for her instead. _Would she have preferred Willas?_

“I know,” Willas said, turning those warm eyes on her now. “My fingertips were pricked and prodded before I was allowed to set foot in the city, and I was informed that if I intended to stay in King’s Landing for more than three days, I’d have to go to a ‘treatment house’, and guard myself against the grey plague.”

Sansa glanced at Paxter. “Did you not explain all this to your nephew?”

Paxter shrugged. “He didn’t ask.”

A glance at Shireen reassured Sansa that she was still feigning interest in her soup, so she took it upon herself to give Willas a brief overview of the treatment they had discovered on Tarth, and the way they had been using it to fight the outbreak in the city over the past weeks.

“How marvellous!” Willas exclaimed, his eyes bright with scholarly interest. “And it really works preventatively?”

“Yes. We’re certain of it,” Sansa said firmly. They had moved on to a course of honey and butter snails, and she popped one into her mouth.

“How beautiful to think that your scars, your near-death as a child, should bring about such a blessed miracle,” Willas said, turning to Shireen with admiration in his voice and his gaze.

Shireen stared at him: a doe faced with a hunter’s arrow, before visibly steeling herself. “That’s kind of you to say, my lord.” Her voice was small, but quite polite and proper. “And -” Shireen hesitated, looking at Sansa, who quickly sent her an encouraging smile. “And it was good of you to bring more provisions to us. The smallfolk are suffering enough without starving, too.”

“Well put, Your Grace,” Willas said, lifting his cup to toast her. “But all I have done is my duty as a loyal subject to the Crown,” he added. Sansa could not imagine Mace or Paxter delivering such a line without sounding pompous, but Willas managed to bring it off modestly.

“We must all do our duty,” Sansa said, thinking of Stannis with a sad pang.

The conversation drifted to less serious matters when Willas asked after Honey, and Sansa told him that she had barely had time to go hawking at all since the last time he had been in King’s Landing. “Though I do visit her in the mews sometimes. She is so beautiful.”

Shireen was intrigued by the stories Willas told about all the animals he kept in Highgarden, and they made it through two more courses while he entertained them all with tales of a particularly badly-behaved pup that had nonetheless stolen every heart in the keep. 

“He is the worst hunting hound that has ever been bred, but he has the biggest heart, and the canniest wits. I don’t know how often he’s tricked food right out of our hands! But he’s always there, curling up at your feet and nuzzling you with his wet nose, when you’re feeling sad or lonely.” A bittersweet smile touched Willas’s lips, and Sansa wondered whether he often had cause to feel sad or lonely.

Sansa did her best not to think of Lady as Willas told his stories, but the memories returned nonetheless, flooding her mind and weighing her heart down. _Sweet Lady._ She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to tear up. The last time she had allowed herself to cry about Lady she had been with Stannis. He’d told her about Proudwing and held her hand… _Everything was so much simpler then,_ she thought, her heart heavy.

By dessert - spiced honey biscuits and apple crisps - Sansa had managed to regain a measure of control over her emotions.

“... but I could show you if you like,” Willas said, having just told an enraptured Shireen of a book he had brought with him that explained how to navigate by the stars.

 _How long does he intend to stay that he presumes he will be able to show Shireen such things?_ “My lord,” Sansa said, washing her last bit of apple crisp down with a sip of sweet Arbor gold. “Will you be staying in King’s Landing a little longer than last time, then?”

“Of course he’ll stay longer,” Paxter said at once. “Won’t you, my boy?”

“I’d very much like to, Your Grace,” Willas said, looking hesitantly from Sansa to Shireen. “This treatment for the grey plague you’ve discovered is fascinating. I feel I should learn all about it and tell my father of its benefits.” His eyes were dripping with sincerity. “Perhaps the princess would be willing to be my teacher?” He looked back at Sansa. “And my queen? If you have the time?”

“We could give you the treatment, my lord,” Shireen said, leaning forward in her seat, her eyes bright. “Could we not, Sansa?”

“Certainly,” Sansa said, giving a closed-lipped smile. Ser Gerald’s words of warning were repeating themselves in her mind. “With Maester Gormon’s help, of course.”

***

A week went by, and then another, and Willas showed no sign of wishing to leave King’s Landing. If he was not finding excuses to put himself in Sansa’s path, he was spending time with Shireen, and had even taken to inviting himself along on their daily trips to the Great Sept of Baelor and the treatment houses. Shireen would often stay in each treatment house for an hour at a time, allowing her own scars to be used to treat the people who came in, thus giving the other greyscale survivors time to relax and eat a meal. Willas would sit beside Shireen as she was prodded with needle after needle, discussing books they had read, or distracting her with various stories from Highgarden.

Sansa used the time to speak to the smallfolk that came in for treatment, asking them questions about their families and friends and making sure no one they knew was too sick to come in for the treatment. Most people were happy to chat with her, and it was becoming rarer and rarer for her to hear of anyone who might need the treatment brought to them. Better still, she had not heard of anyone dying of the plague for more than a week, nor had she been faced with anyone wishing to shout at her about Stannis’s law.

“Bless you, Your Grace,” an old woman named Celia said, squeezing Sansa’s hand. 

Sansa squeezed back, slipping the woman a silver stag. “And may the Mother bless you and your family.” She hoped with all her heart that Celia’s daughter would be well.

Celia left, and Sansa turned to ask Shireen whether it might not be time to get back to the Red Keep. Willas was beside her, and she could tell by their identical expressions of deep concentration that they were discussing something very scholarly.

The sound of bells caused the question to die on the tip of Sansa’s tongue, however. Every hair on her body rose to stand on end, and her heart stopped.

Ser Gerald and Ser Allard were beside her and Shireen almost before the first bell’s toll was finished ringing through their air.

“Your Grace,” Ser Gerald said, his face grave. “We must return to the castle.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. She knew why the bells must be tolling. _The city is under threat._

She exchanged glances with Willas and Shireen, and could see that they were thinking exactly what she was thinking.

_Have the Others come? Has Stannis lost?_

As they hurried to their carriage, Ser Allard and Ser Gerald shielding them from the people running in the icy sludge the streets had turned into, more possibilities ran through her mind.

_Has the truce come to an end? Has Daenerys returned with her armies to take King’s Landing while it is vulnerable?_

Or perhaps Euron Greyjoy’s men had grown tired of reaving on the western shores?

Davos met them as soon as they were through the castle gates, helping Sansa and Shireen out of the carriage with his eyes filled with concern. “Are you both well?” he asked, looking them over.

“Yes, yes,” Sansa said quickly, not caring that she was sinking into the cold, wet mud in the castle courtyard, the hem of her gown’s skirts most likely ruined. “What has happened?”

“The Golden Company is on the kingsroad south of the city,” Davos said, his face tense. “They have not crossed the Blackwater rush to the Mud Gate, but I expect that is their eventual plan.” 

“How do you know it is the Golden Company?” Shireen asked, her eyes going from Davos to Willas, who was struggling to move through the mud with his cane.

“They’re not shy about it,” Davos said heavily. “Golden banners everywhere. And there are other banners, too.” He glanced at Willas who was following the conversation with avid interest, his cane now stuck in the mud. “House Martell’s colours among them.”

Willas looked down, his lips thinning.

“What do you intend to do?” Sansa asked, clasping her hands tightly in front of her.

“Prepare for battle,” Davos said, though the set of his jaw made it clear that this was not something he relished.

“You do not intend to attempt to parlay?” Willas asked, his tone mild and curious.

Davos glanced at him. “Well…”

“We should go and speak to them, shouldn’t we?” Sansa asked, seizing on the hope of a peaceful resolution, even though it was a feeble one. “Perhaps if we explained what’s happening in the north they would agree to a truce like Daenerys did?” She searched Davos’s eyes, praying in silence that he would agree.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Davos said, glancing at Shireen.

Shireen nodded. “It’s the wise thing to do. ‘Never fight a battle you do not think you have a chance to win. And never fight a battle that can be avoided.’”

Davos smiled briefly at her, his eyes softening.

“Shall we go at once?” Sansa asked, her heart beating too hard and too quickly.

“We?” Davos said, frowning at her.

“I will join you,” Sansa said firmly.

“Your Grace…” Davos frowned more deeply, though his eyes were still soft. “You would be safer here.”

Sansa met his gaze without wavering. “What were all my lessons for if not this? Besides, it is a parlay, not a battle. I will be safe enough.”

He sighed. “Fine. But we shall not go at once. We will send a messenger first.”

Willas shifted. “Lord Hand,” he said, looking at Davos. He shifted his gaze to her. “Your Grace. I should like to accompany you if I may.”

Sansa blinked. It was one thing to wish to follow her and Shireen around like an affectionate pup when they went about their business in the city, but this was a parlay. A matter of considerably more importance.

Clearly guessing at some of her thoughts, Willas gave her a small smile. “I wouldn’t ask, but if the Martells are involved, I suspect you will be speaking to Prince Oberyn, and have been friends for a long time. Perhaps I will be able to help persuade him that you are not his enemy.”

“It is the Lord Hand’s decision,” Sansa said, looking at Davos.

“Come along if you must, then,” Davos said, sighing again.

When Shireen opened her mouth to speak next, Davos was quicker. “Absolutely not. You are the king’s heir, and must remain in the castle.”

The next few hours were tense. A messenger was dispatched to request a parlay, and Sansa was not able to concentrate on anything while they waited for his return. She paced in Stannis’s solar, wondering what he would do. Wondering whether they were making the right decision. When the messenger finally returned, Sansa’s anxiety only increased, and she could feel every single beat of her heart as she changed into an appropriate gown for a journey across the Blackwater rush, and had her maid pin her tiara securely into place.

Sansa, Davos, and Willas hardly said a word as they travelled over the murky water, their boat weighed down by their horses and the dozen guards accompanying them. Ser Gerald and Brienne were among them, both looking fearsome in their armour: battle-hardened and ready. The clouds were heavy and dark, threatening snow, and the wind came in fits and bursts, icy and sharp one moment, and utterly absent the next; as if the gods were holding their breaths.

They landed on the shore opposite, a short ride away from a small group of men on horseback, carrying three different banners. One was solid gold, unmarked by devices or designs, one was orange, depicting a gold spear piercing a red sun, and the last was red and white, showing two combatant griffins.

_The banners of the Golden Company, House Martell, and House Connington._

Sansa misliked riding, but Willas had been teaching both her and Shireen, and she knew the grey mare carrying her would not rear or bolt or do anything horrible. Willas was riding a pure white palfray with a shining mane, and looked more whole, and more at home in the saddle than he did with two feet on the ground. Sansa thought briefly of Bran, and how he enjoyed riding, and smiled sadly to herself. _I wish I could go to Winterfell and visit them all._

As they drew nearer to the men beneath the banners, Sansa saw that they were all riding sand steeds. Most of them were black, but one was a startling red. Riding the red horse was a very young man; possibly close to her own age, or Robb’s. He had fair, near-silver hair, an equally fair, handsome face, and eyes that reminded her a little of Shireen’s, though they were unusually glassy. He wore midnight black armour, and rubies glinted at the hilt of his sword. An older man, clearly Dornish, sat atop the horse nearest to him; slender and richly dressed, though nothing he wore was cumbersome or overly ostentatious. His face was lined, and though his hair was dark and lustrous for the most part, grey strands were clearly visible here and there. Despite those signs of age, he had the eyes of a man in his prime: alive and sparkling with intelligence. The other men with them were not quite as richly dressed, and Sansa assumed they were guards. Upon closer scrutiny, Sansa realised two of them appeared to be women.

 _No one among them looks like Jon Connington._ True, Sansa had never seen him, but she had heard him described. The young silver-haired man was certainly not him, and the Dornishman was probably Prince Oberyn Martell.

When Willas gave the Dornishman a cordial nod, Sansa grew certain. _He must be Prince Oberyn._

Davos was the first to speak.

“Thank you, my lords, for agreeing to this parlay.” He inclined his head at Prince Oberyn and the silver-haired man. “I am Lord Davos Seaworth, the Hand of King Stannis Baratheon, and I am here with Queen Sansa Baratheon, and Lord Willas Tyrell.”

“Ah, the smuggler,” Prince Oberyn said, smirking. “I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell.” He took a step back with a flourish of his cloak. “And this is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.” As he spoke, a fourth banner unfurled with a whoosh of fabric: black, showing a red, three-headed dragon breathing flames.

Sansa’s mind went blank, and she tightened her grip on her mare’s reins, making her whicker and shake her head.

_What?_

After a very long pause, Davos cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry, but Aegon Targaryen was murdered many years ago.”

“I was not,” the silver-haired man - Aegon - said, lifting his chin. “Lord Varys switched me with a tanner’s son before Lannister’s men murdered my mother and sister. He smuggled me to Essos where I was kept safe.”

 _Lord Varys did what?_ Sansa wished she was not on top of a horse; she felt faint.

“How fortunate,” Davos said, sounding profoundly unconvinced.

“I was raised by Jon Connington, and we returned to Westeros ahead of Daenerys Targaryen, who is destined to be my queen.”

“Destined, is she?” Davos still did not sound convinced. “Does she know that?”

Aegon flushed.

The wind howled angrily, tugging on Sansa’s cloak and her skirts, catching a few long strands of her hair and pulling them free of her pins and plaits.

“Oberyn,” Willas said quietly. “What is this?”

Prince Oberyn’s eyes flashed. “House Martell has not forgotten what Robert Baratheon’s rebellion and alliance with House Lannister cost our beloved sister, Willas. You’d do well to stay out of this.”

“My prince,” Sansa said, directing her mare to take a step forward, and inclining her head respectfully. “Your sister did not deserve to die the way she did. My father, Lord Eddard Stark, has always deeply regretted the murders committed during Tywin Lannister’s sack of King’s Landing.” She drew a deep breath, recalling Ser Aron’s words. “The killers were tried and executed, but I know you must not feel as if that is enough.”

Prince Oberyn stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he examined her closely. “You think you know how I feel?” His voice had gone quiet, and seemed all the more threatening for it.

She took a silent, deep breath and willed her heart to slow. “My husband and I have no quarrel with you and yours.”

“Perhaps not, but _we_ have a quarrel with _you_.”

“Oberyn,” Willas said again, his voice slightly raised. “You do know what is happening in the north as we speak, do you not?”

There was another, more powerful, gust of wind, and Sansa’s eyes watered as she tried to keep them open in the face of it.

“The Others?” Prince Oberyn snorted. “A story for children.”

“It is not a story,” Davos said sharply. “King Stannis and Daenerys Targaryen came to a truce and have both gone to the Wall in order to protect the realm against a very real, very dangerous foe. If you are Daenerys’s allies, you must honour that truce.”

“We must, must we?” Prince Oberyn said, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Davos answered, but Sansa’s attention was drifting away from his words. She was watching Aegon instead, noticing that his skin - already fair - was turning deathly pale, his glassy eyes completely unfocused, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping himself upright in the saddle.

“Aegon, are you well?” she said, interrupting Prince Oberyn - who had been in the middle of some heated retort - and clumsily directing her mare to take another step forward.

Everyone was looking at Aegon now, but he seemed unable to answer Sansa’s question. He swallowed a few times, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fainted dead away, nearly falling off his steed. But Oberyn’s hand shot out as swiftly as a viper, catching Aegon before he slid out of the saddle.

The deep, haunting sound of the icy gale rushing over the water behind them overwhelmed everything for a moment.

“Prince Oberyn,” Sansa began, her stomach filling with dread. She knew the symptoms Aegon had. She had seen them on Tarth, and she had seen even more of them in King’s Landing over the past weeks. “Why is Jon Connington not with you? Aegon said Jon raised him, and you have his banner here. Where is he?”

“The grey plague took him months ago,” Prince Oberyn said distractedly, his hand on Aegon’s forehead. He frowned, wriggling his fingers past the gorget of his armour to feel his neck, too. Next he forced one of Aegon’s eyes open, and peered closely at it. “This is no poison I know of,” he muttered under his breath.

“But you’re… certain that none among you are afflicted?” She resisted the urge to bite her lip.

Prince Oberyn looked up sharply. “My brother had every healthy man among the Golden Company moved to the Water Gardens as soon as the plague broke out in Sunspear. Those who were ill were left behind.”

The wind gave a long, mournful whistle before drifting into stillness.

“Clearly not all of them,” Sansa said, looking sadly at Aegon.

“My nephew can’t have the grey plague,” Prince Oberyn said, shaking his head and glaring at her. “He’s been marching with us for weeks. He’s been well.”

Sansa met his eyes steadily, though her heart was pounding. “You have been marching through lands where the plague runs rampant.” Her voice was quiet, but the wind had all but seized blowing, so it carried well in the tense silence. “You may all be infected by now.”

A snowflake drifted down in front of Sansa’s eyes, landing on her gloved hand. For a moment it lingered, a little white star, and then it melted.

Prince Oberyn clenched his jaw and shook his head, but there was fear and doubt in his eyes. “No.”

Now there were too many snowflakes to count, falling in gentle swirls as if they had all just been waiting for the wind to still.

“But you are fortunate, my friend,” Willas spoke up. “Queen Sansa happens to have a cure for the grey plague on hand.”


	29. Flowers in the Snow

Sansa was running through snow.

It was very odd to be running on four legs, and to be so very _big._

“Ghost, to me,” a familiar voice said, though it was deeper, more mature than when she’d last heard it. She followed the sound of it. The scent of it.

_Jon._

She nearly jumped into his arms, she was so overjoyed to see him. _It’s been so long..._

“Did you find anything to eat?” Jon asked her conversationally, leading her away from the snow and the trees and the scents of winter, and into a black tunnel. Ahead were men. A lot of men, blood, sweat, and all manner of odours that she was sure she would find more disgusting had she been wearing her usual nose. “See any wights?” Jon went on as they walked farther into the tunnel, the flaming torch in his hand lighting their way.

 _No, I didn’t see anything._ She wanted to say it, but Ghost couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even make a sound.

Then, sniffing the air, Sansa stopped dead. Jon stopped too, looking at her with a frown. 

_There’s someone else in the tunnel,_ she wished she could tell him.

“Was that wise, boy?” A voice said out of the darkness. A voice Sansa knew.

_Stannis._

She looked around, sniffing and sniffing, frantic to find him. When she finally spotted him, skulking in an alcove, she ran over to him.

Stannis stared her down before she managed to get very close to him. She came to a halt, her heart racing. _Is it really you?_

“Was what wise, Your Grace?” asked Jon.

“Letting the beast hunt when we know the woods are full of wights.”

“Daenerys Targaryen lets her dragons hunt beyond the Wall.”

“They can fly.”

“And Ghost can take care of himself.”

Stannis scoffed. “Perhaps, but a wolf is no match for a dragon.”

Jon crossed his arms. “And a stag is?”

The sound of teeth grinding was much louder in Ghost’s ears than it had ever been in Sansa’s own. 

“Why is it that your father does not wish me to be near you? To speak to you?” Stannis asked abruptly.

“I believe we’ve spoken quite often, Your Grace.” Jon’s voice was steady, but his arms were still crossed, and he was not meeting Stannis’s eyes. Ghost’s sensitive nose picked up an anxious, sweaty smell that she didn’t like.

“Do not play the fool, Jon Snow.”

Sansa heard Jon take a deep, slow breath. She could also hear his heart pounding much harder than it should have been, with him just standing still. “Perhaps he thinks bastards offend you, my king,” he said with a bitterly amused twist to his lips.

“The Night’s Watch is manned by the scum of Westeros,” Stannis said, sneering. “Bastards are the least offensive of the lot.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I have work to do.” Jon began to walk past Stannis.

“You should be careful, Lord Commander,” Stannis said, raising his voice a little.

Jon stopped. “Of what?”

“The Targaryen girl. She may offer you sweet smiles, but she is as ruthless as her father was. Whether she is as mad, only time will tell.”

Jon’s hands curled into fists, his nostrils flaring. “Because every time a new Targaryen is born the gods toss a coin in the air to determine whether they are destined for madness or greatness?"

Stannis nodded once, slowly. “‘And the world holds its breath to see how it will land.’”

“Well, I don’t think that’s true,” Jon said. “And I’m not going to hold my breath.” He started walking again, his strides long and purposeful.

Sansa hesitated, both wanting to stay with Stannis and follow Jon.

“What?” Stannis muttered, frowning at her. Ghost was tall enough to look Stannis in the eyes, and she moved closer, until her snout was nearly touching his nose. Stannis’s eyes narrowed as he stared into hers.

 _Can you see me?_ she wondered, wishing again that she could speak.

“Ghost, to me.” Jon’s voice was far away.

Stannis was still staring at her, his brow deeply furrowed. He did not seem remotely intimidated, but there was a certain amount of puzzlement in his eyes. “What do you want?”

_I want you to tell me that you’re sorry._

“Ghost!”

_I want you to come back to me alive._

Stannis slowly brought up a hand to scratch behind her ear, and she closed her eyes, leaning into the touch.

“Your Grace, wake up,” Alynna’s voice said, startling Sansa from her dream. 

She blinked, and rubbed her eyes. What had she been dreaming about? _Ghost was there… and Jon. And Stannis. And so much snow..._

“Your Grace, please,” Alynna’s voice went on. “It’s the princess. She needs you.”

Sansa let the dream slip away and hurried out of bed, hastily donning a bed robe and slippers. “What’s happened?” she asked, following Alynna to Shireen bedcamber.

“You’ll see,” Alynna said, her expression a little embarrassed.

To Sansa’s surprise, they were greeted by a flurry of activity once they’d entered Shireen’s bedchamber. A pair of maids were busily stripping the sheets from the bed, and Shireen was standing in her bedgown, hugging herself and looking pale and shocked.

“Sweetling,” Sansa said, hurrying over to her and embracing her. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Shireen shook her head and mumbled something that Sansa couldn’t make out.

Sansa frowned and glanced up at Alynna and the maids. One of the maids helpfully held up a bit of linen that was stained a brownish red, and gave Sansa a pointed look.

_Oh._

“Oh, Shireen,” she said, embracing her more tightly. “You’ve had your first flowering.”

“My stomach hurts,” Shireen mumbled.

“I’m sorry, it often does,” Sansa said, trying to make her voice as comforting and soothing as she could. “I have a remedy in my chambers that might help.” She caught the eye of the helpful maid. “Could you fetch it, please?”

The maid curtseyed and left at once.

It took a little while, but Alynna and Sansa managed to explain to Shireen that she’d need to line her smallclothes with linen rags for a few days, and change them out regularly. The maid returned with a cup of Sansa’s remedy, and Shireen took it gratefully.

“It’s a bit of a bother,” Sansa said, watching as Shireen gulped the drink down. “But it’s usually over soon enough. And it means that you’re a woman, now.”

“I don’t feel any different,” Shireen said, handing the empty cup back to the maid.

“I know,” Sansa said. _But everything is different, nonetheless._

They shared one last embrace, and then Shireen crawled back into her freshly made bed.

Alynna stayed with Shireen, sharing her bed, but Sansa returned to her own chambers. 

Noticing that the maid had disturbed the wooden box where she kept her remedies, Sansa suppressed a yawn and went to put it back neatly. The lid was the kind that came off completely, and Sansa always made sure to put it the right way around on the box, so all the carvings lined up.

As she was walking towards her featherbed, she was struck by a thought that stopped her in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

_I have not used a remedy from that box since I was on Tarth._

***

“Here, drink,” Sansa said, holding a cup to Aegon’s lips. She was sitting on the edge of his sickbed, hoping that he would respond to her voice. He had been lying there, near motionless, for three days, blissfully unaware of the arguments that had raged in the council chambers over his presence in the Red Keep, over the ‘madness’ of wishing to cure the enemy, of the ugly accusations that Lord Florent had flung, and the complicated dance that had been Sansa’s and Davos’s long, private conversation with Lord Varys.

“I don’t see what possible reason I could have had for switching Aegon with another baby. How could I have known ahead of time what Lannister’s men would do? No one could have imagined such a thing,” Varys had said.

But Davos had been relentless. He had not stopped until Varys had confessed it all.

Varys had taken a chance when he had seen it. The Mountain had left the true Aegon unrecognisable; who was to say he _hadn’t_ been switched? Finding a boy with silver hair and dark blue eyes had been easy for someone with his connections, and once he had found him, he had made sure he was raised right. His dream had been to train a boy, nearly from birth, to be a good, dutiful king like in a song. Nothing like Robert had been. Nothing like Joffrey might have been.

Sansa could not help but be a little sympathetic. 

_Stannis will not be._

Davos asked Varys why he should not have him thrown into the black cells for his treasonous schemes, and his response had been repeating itself in Sansa’s mind, since.

“You may call it treason, my lord, but I call it necessary work. My duty is to the realm and the people in it, not to any one king.”

He’d gone on to insist that he had abandoned his plots when he became convinced that Stannis was already doing what he’d hoped Aegon might do, and that he - and his network of spies - was too valuable to be locked up at this crucial juncture. 

“He’s right, damn him. Besides, he’d probably just escape if I tried to lock him up,” Davos had said to Sansa once they were alone, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Do you think he abandoned his plots?” Sansa had asked, unease in her veins. 

“Varys breathes schemes and plots instead of air,” Davos had said, chuckling. “I imagine he abandons them only when forced.”

Sansa put Davos and Varys from her mind, and looked at the young man in front of her.

_How terrible to be raised to believe a lie._

A lie that meant Prince Oberyn would have to suffer the loss of his nephew all over again. Her heart ached at the thought, even though she barely knew the Dornishman.

Aegon groaned, squinting at her as if the dim light of the chamber hurt his eyes.

Brienne shifted over by the door, and Sansa turned to give her a brief, reassuring smile.

“Please. Drink,” Sansa said, turning back to Aegon.

Blinking rapidly, Aegon groaned again. He had surprisingly long eyelashes for a man. “How do I know it isn’t poison?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, a corner of his mouth lifting.

Sansa smiled, relief flooding her breast. _He must be getting better if he can make jokes._ “You’ll just have to take that chance,” she said, arching a brow.

_Just as I have taken the chance that Prince Oberyn and the army at our gates will honour the truce as they have promised to do._

Aegon made a sound of deep satisfaction after his first gulp of cool water, closing his eyes blissfully. “That tastes good.”

“It’s only water,” Sansa said, amused.

“Finer than any wine I’ve ever had,” Aegon mumbled, trying and failing to lift his head off the pillow to chase the cup for more.

She tipped the cup again, dabbing with a linen cloth when some of it spilled.

Sansa remembered her mother sitting by her bedside when she had been ill as a child, soothing her in this way. The urge to touch her stomach almost overtook her; a complicated, hot emotion rising within her. _Will I do this for my own child in a few years time?_ She pushed the thought away at once, scolding herself. _Nothing is certain. It is still too early._ Mother had always said the first several weeks of a pregnancy were best kept quiet. _Perhaps in another week or two I will speak to Maester Gormon._

“What happened to me?” Aegon asked, seeming a little more alert now that he’d had his fill of water. He was gazing at her warily, his eyes almost purple in the low light. “Where am I?”

Sansa answered his questions. “You were lucky you reached King’s Landing when you did,” she finished, shaking her head. “Another day, and I’m not certain the treatment would have worked for you.”

“Treatment?”

Sansa explained about the treatment he was receiving and Prince Oberyn’s promise of a truce. “Prince Oberyn is a guest at the Red Keep, too,” she said. “I’m sure he will want to visit you as soon as you feel up to it.”

“What about the Golden Company? My men, the plague -” Aegon’s eyes were filling with concern, his face paling until it was marble white. He tried to lift his head again, but failed.

“They’re encamped outside the city walls,” Sansa said, making her voice as reassuring as she could, and touching his cheek to still him. “Many are sick, but they are being treated for the plague.”

Aegon stopped fidgeting and stared at her in disbelief. “Why would you help us?” he whispered.

“The grey plague is much like the Others,” Sansa said. “A common enemy. King Stannis and I believe in protecting the people of this realm from enemies that would seek to destroy us all.”

She thought back to the small council meetings of the past days, arguing the matter back and forth with Lord Florent.

_”It is madness! Offering the treatment to the enemy! What do you think will happen? They’ll wait until they’re hale and hearty, and then murder us all in our beds!”_

_“How would you feel, Lord Florent, if we did nothing to treat the men at our gates, leading to the plague spreading faster and farther, perhaps to the lands of Brightwater Keep? Perhaps leading to the death of someone you dearly love?”_

“You truly believe in the Others?” Aegon asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Yes.”

Aegon swallowed. “And… Daenerys Targaryen went to fight them?”

Sansa nodded. “Every brave knight we’ve been able to spare has gone to fight them. If the Others and their wights breach the Wall, we’re all lost. Another Long Night would be upon us.”

“Then… I should go as well,” Aegon said, trying to lift his head again. “If I am to be a worthy king, a worthy husband for Daenerys -”

“You will not be able to stand on your own two feet for several days. Much less fight a white walker.” She did not have the heart to tell him that Varys had refused to confirm his story about the tanner’s boy. He looked so fragile lying there, so _young_ , and she could not bear to be the one to hurt him with the truth. _Daenerys will not marry you. You are an orphan._

Aegon sighed deeply and stopped struggling, a bitter expression on his face. For a long moment he was quiet, but his eyes were open, so Sansa did not think he was falling asleep.

“Is it true that she has dragons?” he asked after a while, glancing furtively at Sansa. He reminded her at once of Bran and Rickon; a boy wanting a bedtime story.

Slowly, she nodded, again resisting the urge to touch her stomach. “I saw her ride one,” she began, settling herself a little more comfortably. “It was enormous, black as night, and wings that spanned twenty feet, at least…”

***

Prince Oberyn’s fist slammed into the council table with a crash that made Sansa jump. “What do you mean it was a lie?” he hissed, eyes flashing with a fiery rage that had her heart stopping and starting in fits and bursts.

Varys looked unruffled, however. “It grieves me to disappoint you, my prince,” he said unctuously, “but Jon Connington was misinformed. The boy has the Targaryen look - I made sure of it - but he is no closer to being Aegon Targaryen than I am.” He gave a nervous little titter.

Sansa, Oberyn, Varys, and Davos were alone in the council chambers. It had not seemed wise to invite the rest of the small council for this particular conversation.

“My brother said you and Illyrio had a plot in place - for _years_ it has been in place - you say it was all - I do not believe -” Oberyn’s words were disjointed, his tone heated. “How is anyone to believe a single word out of your mouth, master of whisperers?”

Pursing his lips, Varys glanced at Davos.

Davos fixed Varys with a cold, unforgiving stare that made it quite clear that Varys was to continue to explain himself. 

“It was merely a contingency,” Varys said, shifting his eyes back to Prince Oberyn. “When it seemed the Iron Throne was to fall into… the wrong hands.”

“It remains in the wrong hands,” Oberyn snapped. “Robert Baratheon stepped over the broken bodies of my sister and her children to claim the throne. He _married_ the murdering Lannisters.”

“Robert Baratheon is no longer king,” Varys said calmly. “And House Lannister of Casterly Rock is in disgrace.”

“Disgrace?” Oberyn narrowed his eyes. “Tommen Lannister is betrothed to the heir to the throne!”

Varys glanced at Sansa knowingly, and she froze. He tittered again. “For now.”

 _He can’t know._ Sansa was barely certain of it, herself. And she had spoken to no one. Not Maester Gormon. Not even Jeyne.

Varys’s words seemed to enrage Oberyn further. He got up from his seat and began to pace like a caged beast. “The Baratheons are not fit to rule,” he said, his voice the crack of a whip.

“Robert was not, I quite agree,” Varys said, raising a brow. “And Joffrey might very well have been worse than Aerys. But King Stannis is not his brother. And for all his faults, he understands that kingship is his duty, not his right. That a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them.”

Oberyn scoffed, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. “They still share the same blood. Stannis still benefits from Robert’s sins.” Oberyn glanced at Sansa, his face twisting into a sneer. “And now he has married a _Stark._ ”

Sansa flinched. She had never heard the name of her father’s House spoken like such a curse.

“A Stark that also understands her duty to her people,” Varys said, inclining his head at her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before shifting back to Oberyn. “Better even than her husband, perhaps,” he added in a soft voice.

Touched, Sansa looked down at her hands.

With another scoff, Oberyn turned to begin pacing again.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Davos said sharply. “Prince Oberyn, what would it take to appease you and your House?”

Oberyn stopped. He turned slowly to fix Davos with a fierce, calculating look. “Now that would all depend, would it not?” 

“Depend on what?”

“On the Mother of Dragons.”

The silence in the chamber became heavy and oppressive.

“You still intend to support her if she persists in her attempt to take the Iron Throne by conquest?” Davos asked coolly. “Even though you and your men would likely all be dying outside the city walls at this very moment if it were not for the aid we gave you?”

“She is not taking the throne by conquest,” Oberyn hissed. “She is reclaiming her birthright. And if it is true that Aegon is not who we were led to believe he is,” he glared at Varys, “I am sure she could be persuaded to marry my brother’s son instead, and right the wrong that was done to House Martell.”

“Why would she be persuaded to take Trystane when her dragons have already slain Quentyn?” Varys asked, tilting his head to the side. “She clearly does not care about your brother’s pact with Willem Darry.”

Sansa glanced quickly at Davos, wondering if he knew anything about this, but his face betrayed nothing.

Oberyn’s eyes flashed with grief and anger. “His death was a tragic mishap. Daenerys was not present when it happened. I’m sure… I’m sure she regrets my nephew’s fate, just as I’m sure she will honor the pact.” He clenched his jaw shut, clearly unwilling to discuss the matter further.

Sansa pushed her curiosity aside, telling herself that she’d try to find out more about Quentyn and this pact Oberyn and Varys spoke of later.

“Prince Oberyn,” she said, causing the three men to turn towards her. “I could not help but notice that you failed to answer Lord Davos’s question.” Her heart was beating hard, but somehow she was keeping her voice steady and polite. “Please allow me to ask you a different one.” She took a deep breath and fixed Oberyn with a firm, unwavering look. “Aside from saving your life,” she paused for emphasis, “and the lives of your men, using a treatment that would not exist if it were not for Princess Shireen Baratheon, is there anything my husband or I could do to appease you? Or must the only way forward be Fire and Blood?”

For a very long moment, Oberyn stood silent, staring at her. And for the first time since they’d met on the bank of the Blackwater rush, Sansa felt as if he were actually seeing her. His eyes lingered and lingered, growing darker and more troubled, and she kept still, refusing to blush or look away. 

“I must think on this,” he eventually said, striding over to the door and slamming it shut behind him.

***

“Am I to be allowed any actual food today, or am I to suffer porridge and broth for another week?” Aegon asked with a beleaguered sigh, lifting his head from his pillow to peer at the tray Sansa was carrying.

Sansa still called him Aegon for lack of another name, and she still insisted on treating him like an honoured guest. Name or no name, he was the leader of the Golden Company, which was a position of considerable prestige and influence.

Jeyne had been teasing her about it, asking whether Sansa didn’t just like the look of him, but Sansa made sure to respond to such jests by loftily reminding Jeyne that she was _married._

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, biting back a smile and setting the tray down and helping him sit up. “Maybe I’ll be able to convince them to give you something more substantial tomorrow.” She fixed him with a pointed look. “ _If_ you finish your porridge.”

Aegon sighed again, but did not look truly unhappy.

“Do you want to try it yourself?” she asked, having set the tray in his lap. “Or do you want me to feed you?”

“He will never want to feed himself if you are the alternative, Your Grace,” Prince Oberyn’s silky voice said from behind her.

Sansa looked around, and saw Oberyn leaning against the jamb of the open door. Brienne was glaring at him, and had her hand on the hilt of her sword, but stood down when Sansa gave her a quelling look.

“Don’t be stupid,” came Willas’s voice, right before the voice’s owner appeared behind Oberyn. “A man wants to be independent.”

“Go away,” Aegon said, glowering at the pair of them.

“Yes, Willas,” Prince Oberyn said, turning to smirk at Willas. “Go away.”

“I meant both of you,” Aegon said.

Prince Oberyn feigned hurt disbelief. “You do not want my company? I still think of you as a nephew, you know.” His eyes were sparkling. “Or I could make you an honorary sand snake, if you’d like? I’m sure they’d enjoy a brother.”

Aegon flushed a deep red. “Out!”

Laughing, Prince Oberyn backed away, and Sansa could hear his footsteps along with Willas’s, retreating down the corridor.

Sansa shook her head, not quite able to believe how insensitive Oberyn was to Aegon. Indeed, she was astonished at the way Oberyn’s attitude had changed on the whole. For the past days he had seemed an entirely different man from the one who had frightened her with his anger a week ago. She trusted the truce they had negotiated, but his sudden willingness to be appeased by a permanent new position on the small council - one that would always be filled by a Dornishman - a sum of gold, and the promise of a public apology from Stannis upon his return, still did not quite sit right with her. 

“He’s biding his time,” Ser Gerald had said knowingly when Sansa had been discussing the matter with Shireen, inserting his own opinion the way he was wont to do, even though no one had asked. “Seeing whether Stannis comes back. Or if Daenerys does. Or both. Or _neither._ ”

She hadn’t told Ser Gerald, but Sansa thought he was probably right.

When they could no longer hear any footsteps, Aegon turned to her with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Sansa asked, spooning some porridge into Aegon’s mouth.

“They’re idiots,” he muttered.

“I’m sure Prince Oberyn cares about you,” Sansa said, though she did not manage to sound very convincing. “He visits every day.”

Aegon’s expression darkened. “Perhaps.”

He ate more porridge as she fed it to him, his eyes unfocused and far away. She stayed silent, but smiled when he finally looked at her.

“Jon Connington cared about me,” he mumbled, his cheeks reddening again. “I don’t think Oberyn really does. Not like Jon did. I think I was just a means to an end to him. And now I am nothing. No one.” The bitterness that had hung over Aegon ever since he learned the truth descended on him now, twisting his face into a grimace. He looked away from Sansa, refusing to eat any more porridge.

“Jon truly was like a father to you, wasn’t he?” Sansa asked gently, putting the spoon down and giving Aegon her full attention.

Aegon nodded miserably, his eyes filling with grief. He blinked a few times, and then squeezed them shut. “He was the one who wanted us to come here.”

“But then the plague came?” Sansa guessed, keeping her voice gentle.

“The plague came with us,” Aegon whispered. “We brought it. Jon brought it.” He looked at her, his eyes glassy with tears. “I didn’t know he was sick when we set sail across the Narrow Sea. He kept it from me. And then the storm blew us all off course, and we lost so many ships. But we made it to Dorne in the end, where Jon said we’d have allies. Prince Doran welcomed us, so we stayed, and then… and then...” He closed his eyes again, and stifled a sob.

“Ssh,” Sansa said, taking the tray away and stroking Aegon’s hair as he shook with more repressed sobs. “It’s all right,” she said comfortingly. “There, there.”

It took Aegon several minutes to compose himself, but once he did he gave Sansa a lopsided smile that tugged at her heart. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you are a man grieving for his father,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Try to get some rest, now.”

Sansa had just closed the door to Aegon’s chamber when Lady Obara Sand and Lady Nymeria Sand, Oberyn’s natural daughters, appeared around the nearest corner, clearly heading for Aegon’s door. Sansa had first seen them during the parlay, though she had not known who they were at the time. Nymeria looked very different off her sand steed and in beautiful, shimmering robes, but Obara looked almost the same; she was even wearing breeches rather than a gown.

“I don’t think Aegon wants to see anyone right now,” Sansa told them.

Nymeria looked from Sansa to Brienne and then back to Sansa, raising a brow. “Oh?” Beside her, Obara crossed her arms.

“He’s upset.”

“Why? Did you upset him?” Obara asked, a note of accusation in her voice. 

Brienne placed her hand on the hilt of her sword. “You should address Queen Sansa as Your Grace.” 

“Brienne, it’s fine,” Sansa said, keeping her eyes on the two sisters.

“Your guard is a woman,” Obara said, sounding intrigued, her dark eyes fixed on Brienne.

“Lady Brienne has proven herself in battle many times over,” Sansa said. “But I would not have expected this to surprise you. You are ladies, and yet you both rode to war with your father.”

Obara narrowed her eyes. “It does not surprise me that Lady Brienne,” she nodded respectfully at Brienne, “is an able warrior. I just did not think the people of King’s Landing knew not all ladies wish to sew and birth babies.” She sneered as she spoke the last words, almost as if the idea of sewing and birthing babies offended her deeply.

Unconsciously, Sansa’s hand went to her stomach, but she dropped it as soon as she realised. 

“I could not have grown up with my sister without learning that,” she said quickly, smiling. Thinking of Arya brought with it a bittersweet pang, and Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her sister’s face and missing her. “She has been learning to be a water dancer for several years now,” she added. 

Obara dropped her arms, and she and Nymeria looked at one another, their eyebrows slightly raised.

“Is Aegon really upset?” Nymeria asked, now looking directly at Sansa.

“Yes. We were speaking of his relationship with Jon Connington; he is still grieving.”

“I see,” said Nymeria. There was an awkward pause during which the two sisters looked at one another again, communicating in silence. Nymeria looked back at Sansa, her brow furrowed. “He confides in you?”

“Don’t worry, he has not spilled any military secrets,” Sansa said wryly, clasping her hands in front of her.

Nymeria gave a tinkling little laugh, like silver bells. Obara smirked.

Sansa looked surreptitiously around, noting that they were alone in the corridor. “Would you both like to join Brienne and me for tea?”

Still amused, Nymeria glanced at her sister and nodded. “Why not?”

Once they had settled in Sansa’s apartments, Brienne looking a little discomfited to be sitting with them rather than standing by the door, Sansa smiled at them all.

“My cook has been experimenting with Dornish recipes since you came to stay,” she said, gesturing at the plate of Dornish creamcakes that had arrived with their tea. “Please try them; you can tell me whether they taste as they ought.”

Obara took a creamcake, but did not look entirely pleased with her cup of tea. “If you wish to offer us something Dornish, I’d rather you brought out a bottle of Dornish red,” she said.

Conversation came surprisingly easily. Obara was curious about Brienne’s battle experiences, and for a while Sansa was able to sit back, drink her tea, and listen to the other ladies talk. But when Brienne finished telling the story of how she had shot down Daenerys’s dragon, Sansa couldn’t keep quiet anymore. “You are being too modest!” she exclaimed, setting her cup down with a clink of porcelain. “You should have seen her. She was like a brave knight from a song.”

“Not a knight,” muttered Brienne, blushing blotchily.

“I’d make you one if I could,” Sansa said, glancing at Obara and Nymeria. “Can ladies be knights in Dorne?”

Obara shook her head sullenly and sipped the wine that had been brought for her.

“But I heard they can inherit ahead of their younger brothers. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Nymeria said. “Arianne Martell inherits ahead of her brothers, for instance.”

“Brothers?” Sansa asked, her heart beating a little quicker. “She only has one brother now, doesn’t she? I heard Quentyn Martell was slain by Daenerys’s dragons.” She offered Nymeria another creamcake.

Nymeria took a cake. “Yes, he was. Poor Quentyn.” She sighed and took a large bite.

“I hope he did not suffer,” Sansa said, speaking with genuine sympathy, thinking of her grandfather’s fate.

“Oh, he suffered,” Obara said. “The dragons burned his flesh, and it took him days to die of his wounds.”

Sansa felt Brienne stiffen where she sat beside her on the bench, and it did not blame her. Her stomach turned over and over, and though she hadn’t eaten any creamcakes, Sansa still pushed her plate away.

“I don’t know what Prince Doran expected, sending him to see Daenerys,” Nymeria sighed. “Pact or no pact, he could never have charmed a queen like her… and I don’t know what he was thinking, trying to tame a dragon.” She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, scoffing. “Doran should have sent my father.” 

“Why didn’t he?”

“Because of the pact, I suppose.”

“They one that was made with Willem Darry?” Sansa asked, trying to make it sound as if she knew more about it than she did.

Nymeria hesitated. After swallowing more cake and washing it down with tea she finally answered. “Yes. What do you know of it?”

“Just what your father has mentioned.”

Nymeria’s shoulders relaxed. “It used to be such a secret,” she said, shaking her head. “But I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

Obara glared at Nymeria, but Nymeria just glared back. 

“The pact promised Dorne would help Viserys Targaryen take the Iron Throne if he would marry Arianne Martell,” Nymeria said. “But after Viserys died, Prince Doran sent Quentyn to marry Daenerys instead.”

Nodding as if none of this was new to her, Sansa reached for her teacup. Her stomach was still too unsettled for her to consider drinking from it, but she wanted something to do with her hands.

Nymeria gave a humourless little laugh, nothing like the silver bells from before. “Doran actually thought it was Daenerys coming when Aegon and the Golden Company arrived. He was fully prepared to offer her Trystane since Quentyn had gone and got himself killed, but of course that didn’t happen.”

“Of course,” Sansa said softly.

“After Jon Connington introduced Aegon, and told us of Varys’s plot with Illyrio, Doran tried to get Aegon to marry Arianne,” Nymeria went on, rolling her eyes, “but Aegon insisted that he was supposed to marry Daenerys.”

 _Introduced?_ Sansa kept her face still, but understanding dawned within her. If the Martells had only found out about Aegon a few months ago, it did much to explain Oberyn’s mercurial reaction to learning the truth about him. _He has not had years to get to know and love him._

“It’s a good thing Arianne didn’t marry him,” Obara said with a scowl. “Now that we’ve found out he isn’t who he claimed to be.”

“Allegedly,” Nymeria said archly, sipping her tea.

The subject changed to Arianne Martell, and though Sansa listened - the stories Nymeria and Obara told were quite interesting - she was too preoccupied with what they had told her about Doran’s plans to give them her full attention. 

_If Daenerys returns, House Martell’s instinct will be to support her. No matter what Davos and I do to appease Oberyn._

***

Sansa took a sip of her wine, careful not to spill a drop on her sky blue silks. She glanced discreetly over the rim of her cup to examine her eleven dinner guests from her strategic vantage point at the head of the long table, amazed that she had managed to convince them all to sit down with her.

Oberyn was on her immediate right, and next to him sat Aegon, finally well enough to leave bed, though he was still pale and wan. Obara, and Nymeria came next, and Ser Aron Santagar after them. On Sansa’s left side sat Shireen, looking nervous but hiding it well enough that Sansa did not think anyone but herself could see it, and next to her was Willas, his expression mild and reserved. After him came Paxter, and then Jeyne, wide-eyed and excited. Marya sat beside Jeyne, and Davos sat at the other end of the table, directly opposite Sansa. Both husband and wife looked vaguely discomfited, but Davos hid it better.

The first course had just been served, and though Paxter’s best wines had been flowing freely, the conversation was off to a stilted start.

“... and then they tried to make me their chieftain,” Prince Oberyn said, telling a story from his travels abroad. Of the eleven guests, he looked most at his ease. Hardly anyone had said a single word while he’d been speaking, though it was not considered impolite for several conversations to be held at once when so many dined together.

“That is a lie,” Willas said, snorting.

Prince Oberyn raised a brow. “Were you there?”

Willas rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Instead he leaned close to Shireen and whispered something that made her giggle.

More than once, Sansa had wondered whether to warn Shireen that Willas’s kind attentions might not be all that they seemed, but she always hated herself for the impulse. She did not want to be suspicious and distrustful the way Stannis was. She wanted to believe that Willas was simply behaving the way every true knight should.

_After all, why shouldn’t he be kind to us? We are highborn ladies; his queen and princess. He needs no ulterior motive to be courteous and charming to us._

Ser Aron and Nymeria began speaking together in low voices, and Sansa wished she could hear what they were saying. Beside them, Obara was glowering at everyone in silence.

“It must have been exciting,” Jeyne said, gazing wistfully at Oberyn. “Travelling like that.”

“Oh, indeed,” he said, smiling at her. “The world is a larger, more magical place than you can imagine, my lady. Don’t you agree, Aegon?”

Sansa looked at Aegon and was surprised to find him looking at her, though he averted his eyes quickly, turning his head towards Jeyne, cheeks reddening. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Essos is vast, my lady, and full of fantastic places and even more fantastic people.”

“There are fantastic people in Westeros, too,” Jeyne said, her voice a touch defensive.

“Undoubtedly. But I have not seen men with green beards or blue hair in Westeros,” Aegon said, smiling. “The fashions here are more practical.”

“Blue hair?” Jeyne scoffed. “That sounds absurd.”

“I used to have blue hair,” Aegon said, still smiling.

Jeyne flushed, but was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of the second course: a Dornish dish of chopped eggs with cheese and various colourful peppers. A servant made to pour Jeyne more wine to accompany the eggs, but she quickly placed her hand over the cup. “I’m just having lemon water,” she explained. “Maester Gormon says wine isn’t good for the baby.” She touched her swollen belly, smiling gently.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw that Lady Marya leaned close to Jeyne to say something, but she was rapidly losing interest in everything but the cup of wine she had half-finished. Her heart was racing, and mouth was drying up in horror. She tried to swallow and unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, but panic and bile were rising up to her throat, and she was having trouble breathing.

_Have I ruined it? Will I lose the baby before I’m even sure it’s there?_

“Your Grace?” Willas said quietly, looking closely at her. “Are you well?”

Forcing herself to smile, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Are you certain? You look a little green,” Aegon said, having turned to look at her when Willas spoke.

Shireen was looking at her too, her brow furrowed. “Sansa?” she said in a very low, soft voice.

Obara leaned across Aegon to whisper something in her father’s ear, and now Oberyn was staring at her too, his eyes glittering with interest.

“I’m very well, thank you,” Sansa managed to say, hoping that the blood rushing to her cheeks would at least improve her complexion. Another forced smile. “How are the eggs?” Under the table, she reached for Shireen’s hand and squeezed it, hoping to reassure her. Shireen squeezed back.

“Best eggs I’ve ever tasted,” Aegon said, returning her smile with earnest eyes.

Willas and Oberyn exchanged thoughtful glances, but then they were agreeing with Aegon, showering the eggs with extravagant compliments.

***

Nausea became Sansa’s constant companion over the next few days, and she was not sure for how much longer she could keep from visiting Maester Gormon. Her maids were already gossiping, and Jeyne kept shooting her suspicious looks.

But though Sansa hadn’t touched a drop of wine since the fateful dinner, she was frightened that Maester Gormon would take one look at her, shake his head sadly, and tell her that it was hopeless. She had taken to visiting the godswood every day that the weather allowed it, praying harder than she had ever prayed in her life for the baby she was now almost certain she was carrying.

“Here, allow me,” Willas said, appearing from thin air to offer his arm just as Sansa had been about to step onto the icy path that led to the godswood.

Somewhere behind her, Ser Gerald was chuckling. Without Brienne around to glare him into submission, Sansa was forced to throw an irritated glance over her shoulder herself.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, though she was growing weary of Willas’s constant appearances. It had been pleasant at first, and his courtesies were always perfect, but it was becoming overwhelming. “I thought you were going to go riding with Princess Shireen.”

“Lady Alynna decided to go with Her Grace,” Willas said easily. “They hardly needed me around to spoil their fun.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, her smile a little forced.

They walked in silence for a time, and Sansa was reluctantly grateful for Willas’s steadying arm. His cane was fitted with a sharp pick that had already saved them both from slipping on treacherous patches of ice a number of times. 

“You know, I believe young Aegon has taken a fancy to you, my queen,” Willas said at length, when the trees around them had grown thicker, providing the illusion of privacy. But Sansa was sure there was nothing private about anything they said; Ser Gerald was likely straining to hear every word.

“Do you?” she said, carefully keeping her tone light and curious. In truth, she was almost sure Willas was right. Since regaining his full health, Aegon had been hinting that he’d like a private dinner with her, ‘to thank her for her care of him while he’d been ill’, and she did not know what to do about it.

“You must know how you turn every man’s head,” Willas said, gazing steadily at her, his eyes achingly sweet. “We are helplessly entranced by your sweetness.”

Ser Gerald started to hum a familiar tune, and the words ‘sweet as a ripe fresh-picked plum’ came unbidden to Sansa’s mind.

She blushed hotly. “Willas,” she said, casting another irritated glare at Ser Gerald. Awkwardness was settling on top of the nausea in her stomach in a wholly unpleasant way, and she wished she could just be alone. “You shouldn’t say such things. I’m married.”

“Yes, to that brute of a man,” Willas said, shaking his head with a sigh. “I’m sure he’s never had the sense to tell you how astonishingly beautiful you are.”

Her stomach flipping over, Sansa picked up her pace as much as she dared, wanting to reach the heart tree where Willas would be forced to be silent.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said quietly, his breathing coming a little quicker as he sped up to keep up with her. “I spoke out of turn.”

Sansa bit her lip to keep from answering him, and stared straight ahead. She could just glimpse the great oak - the heart tree - and despite Willas’s laboured breathing, she sped up a little more. 

Willas said nothing else, and fell back respectfully once they reached the clearing where the great oak stood. Ser Gerald caught up to Willas and stood back with him, his footsteps near silent. 

Sansa approached the tree alone, closing her eyes and listening for the voices of the gods just as Father had taught her.

_Help me. Guide me. Please._

At first she thought the faint, eerie sound she suddenly heard was the gods answering her, but as she continued to listen, nearly holding her breath, she realised it was not the voice of the gods. Nor the wind disturbing the bare branches of the godswood. It was a sound she had heard before. On Tarth.

It was the blood-curdling scream of a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your comments and kudos. I appreciate every single one. ♥
> 
> The line Oberyn delivers at dinner (“... and then they tried to make me their chieftain,” ) was inspired by something very similar Captain Jack Sparrow said in the first PotC movie. I'm sure many of you thought it was familiar. I don't know why, but I've always sort of thought that Oberyn and Jack are kindred spirits.


	30. Three Queens

Sansa stood on the parapets of the Red Keep’s curtain walls, watching the dragon fly in circles. At first the dragon had flown in wide circles along the city walls, but now it was flying low over the heart of the city. Her subjects were screaming, and the sound of their terror mingled with the ominous tolls of the bells, creating a gut-wrenching cacophony of horror.

 _There is nothing I can do for them,_ she thought, her heart sinking. If Daenerys Targaryen had come to rain fire and blood down on the city, there was _nothing_ Sansa could truly do.

Brienne or the men that were ready to fire the city’s scorpions might be able to do something, but Davos and Sansa had agreed that they would not shoot at the dragon unless it attacked first.

_There has been no word of the truce ending._

And if the truce still held, they would not be the ones to break it.

Tension mounted as the dragon flew close to the Red Keep, and Sansa held her breath as the leathery sound of its wings, and the woosh of air over scales grew louder. She caught a brief glimpse of a figure riding the dragon, and her heart skipped a beat when something flashed silver in the weak winter sunlight.

_It must be her. Daenerys._

The dragon hung still in the air for a long moment, and Sansa held her breath, her lungs burning from lack of air.

She could hear Brienne’s scorpion creaking, and knew that as soon as Davos gave the signal, she’d be ready to fire.

_Will the dragon attack?_

But nothing happened. The dragon did not breathe fire or do anything violent. It simply continued on its way. 

A sliver of hope rose within Sansa’s breast as she let out a long, slow breath, and she found herself standing up straighter.

“She’s heading for the Dragonpit,” Davos said, his face grim.

There was a moment of silence between them, though the wind was still carrying desperate screams of terror to their ears.

“I will ride out to meet her.”

“Your Grace - “

Sansa fixed him with a firm look. “We must attempt to approach Daenerys like an ally, and I do not think she would perceive me as a threat.” 

Sansa loved Davos, and knew he was an intelligent, capable man. But this meeting with Daenerys was possibly the most delicate diplomatic situation any ruler in King’s Landing had ever faced, and a powerful gut instinct was telling her that sending any man - even a good man like Davos - to greet the Mother of Dragons, would be a mistake. _There are some things men can never understand._

The grim expression stayed in place as he searched her eyes, but then he blew out a loud breath, shaking his head. “Take guards, at least.”

Surprised and relieved he’d been so easily persuaded, Sansa nodded. “Of course.”

“Do you think she is here to warn us all to flee?” he asked quietly, gazing over at the Dragonpit.

Sansa knew he was really asking whether she thought the war was lost. Whether _Stannis_ had lost. Her heart clenched up at the thought. It was a real possibility, and Sansa knew she had to prepare herself for the worst news imaginable.

“I don’t know,” she said, closing her eyes.

***

The Dragonpit’s blackened walls loomed ahead as Sansa’s mare made its way up Rhaenys's Hill, her hands gripping the reins so tightly that she had lost all feeling in them. She was surrounded by guards. Ser Gerald was riding in front, Brienne on Sansa’s right, and several gold cloaks rode all around them, Ser Rolland at the rear. The streets were now eerily empty and quiet. Most of the smallfolk were hiding, though a few stragglers lingered. Some of them approached Sansa and her guards with desperate expressions, asking them what was happening. They were all sent on their way with a warning to stay indoors for the nonce.

Sansa had not changed out of the gown she had worn to visit the godswood. It was a warm velvet affair, dove grey and ivory, and her heavy sable cloak was wrapped snugly about her. She was not wearing her tiara, and her hair was simply arranged and caught in a silver net. Had there been time, Sansa might have donned her more regal cloth-of-gold gown, but she took comfort and strength in the Stark colours, and did not regret that she had not been able to change.

Just as they reached the Dragonpit, a monstrous scream rent the air. The collapsed dome of the pit did little to contain it, and it echoed all around them, sending fresh chills down Sansa’s spine.

_How long must it have been since these walls have known a sound like that?_

The first thing they saw once they were inside the crumbling structure was the dragon. Jet black, its nostrils steaming where it stood at the centre of the pit. Its wings were furled, but its long neck was moving as it observed the surroundings with evident displeasure in its red gaze. The figure standing by it appeared tiny in comparison, and yet she was petting its scales as if the beast were no more than a loyal hound. She did not seem worried about the claws on the dragon’s gigantic feet, close enough to slash her open.

_And why should she worry, if she is its mother?_

“Don’t come any closer,” the silver-haired woman said, her voice ringing with confidence and authority. “Drogon has had a long flight. He is hungry.”

A few paces behind Sansa, Brienne and Ser Gerald shifted uneasily.

“What does he eat?” Sansa said, glad to find that her voice was not shaking.

Daenerys - for it could be no one else - lifted her chin. “Whatever he likes.”

Sansa internalised a frown. “Would he like fish?” she asked, keeping her tone mild and courteous. She was glad they’d decided to leave most of the gold cloaks and the horses outside. “Provided we bring plenty?”

Daenerys nodded.

Sansa caught the eye of Ser Rolland, lingering by the entrance. “Please have all the fish you can gather brought here, ser. Quickly.”

Ser Rolland nodded and sent a gold cloak to do Sansa’s bidding. The young man looked relieved to go.

Daenerys took her hand off the dragon and started toward them. Sansa stood still. It did not take the Mother of Dragons very long to close the distance, but Sansa used the time to observe her. She was much smaller than Sansa had imagined, closer to Jeyne’s height than her own. Her features were very fine and delicate, and the silver-gold colour of her hair made her appear even finer still. She was dressed all in black, and the leather detailing was made to look as if she wore dragon scales. A three-headed dragon pin fastened her cloak over one shoulder. The cloak was black, but had a blood red lining. The contrast of her pale skin and hair with the dark colour of her garb was striking. But not as striking as the violet colour of her eyes.

_Like a pair of amethysts._

But now that Daenerys was only a few steps away, it became clear that those amethyst eyes were unfocused and deeply troubled; full of so much emotion that Sansa almost took an unconscious step back.

“Daenerys Targaryen, I presume,” Sansa said carefully, inclining her head.

Daenerys’s eyes flashed in razor sharp focus, and she raised her chin. “I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons.”

Sansa glanced at Brienne and Ser Gerald. They were both staring at Daenerys with expressions that reflected the same uncertainty she was feeling. In Ser Gerald’s case, she thought she could see bemusement, too.

“Well met,” Sansa said. “I am Sansa Baratheon.”

“Stannis Baratheon’s wife?” Daenerys’s voice sharpened.

“Wife and _queen._ ” Brienne said, before Sansa had a chance to answer.

Sansa raised her hand and gave her a quelling look. “Yes. I am his wife.” Every part of her being was aching to interrogate Daenerys. Beg for news. But she reminded herself that Daenerys was probably exhausted from a long flight, and swallowed her questions with difficulty. “And as we are allies, I have come to welcome you to King’s Landing.”

Daenerys blinked. “Thank you,” she said curtly. She looked away from Sansa, staring into the middle distance. There was a brief silence. “The people did not welcome me. They screamed and hid.”

“They are afraid of the dragon,” Sansa said, taking a tentative step forward. She was close enough to reach out and touch Daenerys, now. _After the siege… after the destruction in the crownlands… Of course they screamed and hid._

“Everywhere I’ve gone in this country,” Daenerys went on, “they’re never happy to see me. Their _queen_. Even when I’ve just sacrificed _everything_ to save them, they cheer for their precious Starks. For Jon _Snow._ ” There was something very strange about the way Daenerys said ‘Snow’, but Sansa didn’t have time to dwell on it. “They even treated the Usurper with more respect than they treated me.”

 _The Usurper? Does that mean Stannis?_ Sansa’s heart leapt, and she had to bite her tongue to contain the urge to ask whether he was alive. She wanted to ask about all of them, but she didn’t dare. “I’m sure that’s been very upsetting,” Sansa said instead, doing her best to keep her voice soothing, as if she were trying to coax Rickon to sleep. “Shall we go to the Red Keep? We can talk more comfortably there.”

The unfocused look disappeared from Daenerys’s eyes and she glared at Sansa. “I am not here to _talk._ I am here to take the Iron Throne.”

The silence that followed this pronouncement was loud and ringing. 

Both Ser Gerald and Brienne placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, shifting their stances. Shaking her head minutely at them, Sansa gave Daenerys a measured look. Willing her heart to slow, she took a deep breath and spoke. “I was under the impression there was a truce in place. Are you here to break it?”

“Our common enemy has been destroyed,” Daenerys said coolly. “What need have we now for a truce?”

 _Destroyed? The war is won?_ Relief and a thousand emotions Sansa could not name swept through her all at once, and Sansa nearly staggered. Ser Gerald took a step closer, his eyes concerned, but she waved him off, forcing herself to remain calm. “Truly?”

Daenerys gave a slow nod. “The Night King was defeated by a little water dancer.” Her lips curled into something that Sansa supposed might be named a smile. But it looked too bitter to be anything so lovely.

Sansa shook her head. “A water dancer?” Had that strange little man, Syrio Forel, her sister’s teacher, saved them all from another Long Night?

“After everything I sacrificed...” Daenerys said, her violet eyes full of rage and grief, “Rhaegal, Viserion… Missandei…” She trailed off, her face twisting into a bitter grimace.

Sansa took a fraction of a step forward. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, half afraid of startling Daenerys. “Were they close to your heart?”

Daenerys blew out a sharp breath and turned her face away. “Viseron was one of my children. They took him. They _used_ him.”

“They? The Others?”

“And Rhaegal betrayed me. But Missandei was innocent,” Daenerys went on as if she hadn’t heard Sansa. “A child.”

Sansa frowned. Why had there been a child involved? Had the war not been contained at the Wall? Who would bring a child into battle? “I’m very sorry for your losses,” Sansa said, trying to catch Daenerys’s gaze. 

Daenerys’s eyes finally snapped up to meet hers. “Are you?”

Behind Daenerys the dragon tilted its head to the side, fiery eyes watching the two ladies closely. It made a noise that was nowhere near as loud as its screams, but still loud enough to catch the attention of every person in the Dragonpit.

Glancing back over her shoulder at it, Daenerys said something in High Valyrian, and the dragon settled down.

Daenerys looked back at Sansa, but said nothing.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sansa said quietly. “Are you here to break the truce?”

“There is no truce,” Daenerys said, eyes flashing dangerously. “There is only me. Daenerys Targaryen. The _rightful_ queen.”

Sansa clasped her hands together in front of her stomach and looked past Daenerys at the dragon. Though he seemed almost docile now, sitting quietly as he was, there was no mistaking him for anything but a monster. His horns and spinal plates looked as if they had been dipped in blood, and his eyes smoldered maliciously as he met her gaze. _He is what the books say Balerion the Dread was._

As Sansa considered the dragon, her insides churning, her thoughts went to the Golden Company and the army from Dorne, encamped outside the city walls. _Will they all rally to her banner?_ Sansa was almost certain that Oberyn would support Daenerys, but would Aegon?

_And what of Willas? Paxter? What will they do?_

Many of both Aegon’s and Oberyn’s men had been severely weakened by the plague - despite receiving treatment - and Sansa was sure that if the Reach lords sided with the Crown they’d stand a good chance against the Golden Company and the Dornishmen.

_Unless Daenerys unleashes the dragon._

How much damage would the beast be able to do before someone was able to finish what Brienne had started on Tarth, and shoot it down?

“Could we not go to the Red Keep?” Sansa said, dropping her hands and looking away from the dragon. “We could discuss all this with the small council.”

“Have you not been listening?” Daenerys said, her voice echoing faintly off the far-off walls. “I have come to claim the Iron Throne. Not to discuss anything with any council.”

“You have come alone,” Sansa pointed out, wondering whether Daenerys would contradict her. _Does she know Oberyn is here? Is she relying on Dorne’s support? Is that why she dared to come here without her armies? Or will her armies perhaps be here before long?_

Daenerys’s eyes flashed. “I have Drogon.”

Sansa looked at the dragon for another long moment, thinking hard. _Has she really come to take the city with one dragon?_ She dragged her gaze back to Daenerys’s eyes. “I was told it was your desire to rule over living subjects.”

Daenerys gave a tight nod. “It is.”

“Then it is my hope that you do not intend to unleash Drogon on the city just now.” Sansa tried to give a polite smile, but she was not sure she managed it. “You must be weary after flying all this way. I have had comfortable chambers prepared for you at the castle, and clean clothes set out. You could enjoy a hot bath and a refreshing meal. And then perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me and the small council about everything that happened in the north?” Sansa took a step closer. “Please, can we not count ourselves allies for a little longer? The Iron Throne will remain where it is.”

A small furrow appeared between Daenerys’s brows and then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Fine.”

Sansa released the breath she’d been holding. “Will Drogon be well by himself here? I’m sure his fish will be delivered soon.”

“He will stay,” Daenerys said, turning to look at the dragon. She spoke a few words of High Valyrian and looked back at Sansa. “If you attempt to harm or bind him _or me_ , I will not be held responsible for his actions.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, inclining her head.

Daenerys started to walk past her, but paused to look at Sansa with something that resembled pity. “If it is your intention to stall for time,” she said quietly, “you should know Stannis Baratheon and Eddard Stark are both dead. Waiting for them to come and save you will do you no good.”

Sansa’s heart plummeted and her mind was wiped clean of everything but a black, shivering _no._

She managed to keep herself from collapsing until Daenerys had left the Dragonpit with Ser Rolland, but as soon as the last strand of silver-gold hair disappeared from sight, her knees gave out completely.

Ser Gerald caught her, and she stared at him without seeing, her body shaking uncontrollably, her heart shattering into a thousand, jagged pieces.

_No._

***

Everyone was sitting around the council table in complete silence, staring at Daenerys.

Davos, Varys, Lord Florent, Lord Andrew, Paxter, and Maester Gormon were all there, and Prince Oberyn had insisted on taking Ser Aron’s place.

Sansa was still hollow on the inside from shock and grief, though hours had gone by since the Dragonpit. It seemed almost amusing that she had believed herself prepared to hear the worst news imaginable before she had ridden to meet Daenerys.

_Nothing could have prepared me for this._

She wondered vaguely whether she would be able to be of much use in this meeting, but for better or worse, she was sitting beside Davos, watching Daenerys with the rest of them.

 _Courtesy is a lady’s armour,_ she reminded herself, inhaling shakily and shifting to sit up straight with her shoulders back. _I must do this. For Shireen._

Daenerys was wearing her own clothes still, but her hair was arranged a little differently. Some of the tight plaits she must have worn for the flight had been loosened, and much of her hair now flowed down her back in silver-gold waves that caught the light prettily.

The dragon queen did not seem to dislike having all their eyes on her. She was sitting with her head held high, casting disinterested looks at the different members of the small council, the barest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Finally, Davos broke the silence. He politely welcomed Daenerys and went on to introduce the men she hadn’t met previously. Courteous nods were exchanged, and Sansa noticed that Daenerys’s eyes lingered for a long time on Oberyn after Davos finished reciting his full title. 

“I hear you have both good news and bad to share with us,” Davos said in the end, his tone wary.

Sansa had told Davos what Daenerys had reported - the victory and the deaths - and after a long, tight embrace where they had both shed tears, they had agreed to wait to tell Shireen until after they’d heard more details from Daenerys. “I’m sure she’s telling the truth,” Davos had said, “but we should still question her carefully. There might be some mistake.”

Sansa knew it was a fool’s hope, but she had nodded anyway, her broken heart clinging to the idea. It just… did not yet seem real to her that Stannis and her father were dead. _Shouldn’t I have felt it somehow? Shouldn’t the ground have trembled and shook?_

“I do,” Daenerys said in the present moment, her voice carrying and clear. “The war against the Others has been won.” Lord Andrew breathed a loud sigh of relief, thanking the gods under his breath. He wasn’t the only one to do so, and Daenerys waited until there was silence before going on. “The Wall was breached, but our armies regrouped in Winterfell, and there the Night King was vanquished.”

“The Wall was breached?” Lord Florent asked, aghast. “How?”

For a brief moment, Daenerys’s eyes filled with a deep sorrow. She closed them. When she opened them back up, she seemed as collected as she had been before. “The Others took one of my dragons for their own. Raised him up as a wight and used him to break the ice.”

“You mean to say it was your fault?” Lord Florent asked, his voice rising. “How could you let them take one of your dragons?”

“I did not _let_ them,” Daenerys said sharply, her face flushing with anger.

“I’m sorry,” Davos said, “I’m sure Lord Florent didn’t mean anything by that. We all know war is a complicated beast. These things happen.”

Daenerys looked somewhat mollified, though she was still glaring at Lord Florent. “Once Viserion was taken, we knew what might happen and we retreated to Winterfell. There was a battle, and we won.”

“How?” Maester Gormon asked, leaning forward, his eyes alight with scholarly interest.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and I were able to ride my dragons and provide the army with cover from above. Together we were able to defeat the wight that used to be Viserion. The Night King was riding him. Without us, all would have been lost.” Her voice had grown stubborn, and she glared around at them all, as if to dare them to contradict her.

 _Without you, the Night King would never have had a dragon wight to ride, and might never have breached the Wall in the first place,_ Sansa could not help but think.

“Understood,” Davos said, nodding.

“Without us, the Night King would never have presented a target. We would have finished him ourselves, but we were trying to keep the wights from overwhelming the walls.” Daenerys went on, her tone argumentative even though no one was raising any objections.

“Who finished him?” Davos asked.

Daenerys’s lips thinned, and a flash of irritation crossed her face. “I’m told the Stark girl managed to sneak up on him and stab him with her father’s broken blade.”

“What?” Sansa said, her heart stopping. _I thought it was Syrio Forel?_ But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, Sansa remembered that Daenerys had not said his name. _She said it was a little water dancer._ It was hard to believe that Arya could have done something so astounding, but it was even harder to imagine Ice broken. “Ice broke?” Sansa asked weakly, trying to rein her emotions in.

“The Night King fought your father,” Daenerys said in a voice free of emotion. “He broke the greatsword Ice and killed Lord Stark.”

Blinking back tears, Sansa looked down at her hands. They were shaking.

“And what of King Stannis?” Paxter asked. “Where was he?”

“I don’t know,” Daenerys said, a sour look on her face. “Unlike me, _he_ stayed well back from the thick of the fighting.”

A flare of annoyance shot through Sansa. _Riding a dragon is not precisely the same as being in the vanguard._

“King Stannis has always preferred to command from the rear,” Davos said calmly.

“I’m told he disappeared at some point during the battle. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch believes he went to secure the crypt.” Daenerys’s tone was irritated. “Stannis was always going on about that crypt.”

A cold, sickly sense of horror overtook Sansa until she could scarcely breathe. _Gods, the crypt…_ The white walkers had the ability to raise the dead. Had Stannis died down there? Trying to prevent her ancestors’ corpses from rising up from within the keep to destroy her family? _Mother would have been sheltering within Winterfell’s walls, and Bran, and Rickon, and Lady Margaery and her unborn child…_ A wave of nausea rose up, and Sansa swallowed convulsively, trying to suppress the urge to be sick.

Davos was asking for more details about the battle, and Daenerys was answering. Something about digging trenches, and vats of oil ready to pour on the enemy and lit on fire, flaming arrows, obsidian blades, Dothraki, Unsullied, wildlings, knights from the Vale, men-at-arms, and staggering numbers of men killed, but Sansa couldn’t properly hear. Her imagination was spinning out of control, creating more and more terrifying scenarios. By the time there was a lull in the conversation, Sansa was trying to push away horrible images of her mother rising from the dead as a wight and trying to murder Rickon, her heart pounding and her fingernails digging into her palms.

“Do you really expect us to believe the losses you sustained were that severe after all those measures were taken?” Lord Florent asked, breaking the tense silence. “The king dead and more than half the men who went north?

“The army of the dead was vast,” Daenerys calmly, though anger was flashing in her eyes again.

“But it sounds as if you were in an ideal position to defend against them within Winterfell’s walls,” Davos interjected before Lord Florent could say anything else. “I’m told they’re solid granite, and - please correct me if I’m wrong - the white walkers and their wights did not possess siege weaponry, did they? Surely you should not have lost so many men.”

Daenerys’s face turned stony. “The Dothraki are not used to cowering behind walls.”

Davos shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I just don’t believe Stannis would have allowed -”

“Stannis Baratheon did not command _my_ armies.” Daenerys’s nostrils flared, but then she seemed to calm herself. “The Dothraki were kept in reserve to attack the wights from the rear and slow their progress. But… the wights… they don’t behave like men. They filled the trenches, and then they piled up outside the walls. They kept coming, climbing over the other wights, and then they poured inside. Even with dragonfire, burning oil, and heavily armoured men positioned at the top of the walls to beat them back, they just… kept coming.” She closed her eyes and swallowed.

There was a long silence.

“Who is this ‘Lord Commander’ who was able to fly the second dragon?” Prince Oberyn asked, speaking for the first time and causing everyone to look at him.

Daenerys’s face twitched oddly, and for a moment it was as if grief was at war with anger in her eyes. “His name is Jon. Jon _Snow._ ” She clenched her jaw shut as soon as she’d spoken, her lips thinning again.

Sansa’s mouth almost dropped open. _Jon became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch? He rode a dragon?_

Davos looked at Sansa. “Isn’t he your half-brother?”

Sansa nodded, not taking her eyes off Daenerys. She had twitched again when Davos asked his question.

“How interesting that Stark’s bastard should succeed where my brother’s son failed,” Oberyn said, eyes glittering thoughtfully.

Daenerys frowned. “Do you mean Quentyn?”

Slowly, Oberyn nodded, and something unspoken passed between the two.

“Interesting?” Lord Florent scoffed. “I don’t find it interesting in the least. We have more important matters to discuss. Such as Queen Shireen’s coronation.”

Sansa closed her eyes and winced internally.

“Queen Shireen?” Oberyn said softly. “Who says there will be a Queen Shireen?”

Lord Florent’s face flushed blotchily. “She is King Stannis’s and Queen Selyse’s trueborn heir!”

“That’s right!” Paxter said, causing Lord Florent to blink at him in surprise. Sansa guessed that Paxter was the last man Lord Florent would have looked to for support. _But they are both of the Reach, after all. And Daenerys is an outsider._

Still, Sansa knew the Tyrells and the Redwynes had supported King Aerys in the rebellion. _Will they really support Shireen if it comes down to a choice?_ Surreptitiously, Sansa touched her stomach. _Or might they support me?_

“Ah, but here we have King Aerys’s trueborn heir,” Oberyn pointed out, inclining his head at Daenerys. “A dragonrider. Saviour of the realm.”

“Queen Shireen has saved the realm as well,” Lord Florent insisted. “Without her, the grey plague might very well have taken half the people in this room!”

“The grey plague is not as serious a threat as the Others.”

“You claimed the Others were a story for children not so long ago,” Davos reminded Oberyn.

The council chamber erupted into an argument, too many men speaking at once for any one voice to be heard.

Sansa remained quiet, watching Daenerys. Daenerys said nothing, either. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, they shared the exasperation that only ladies knew, when surrounded by loud, rude men.

“... if it is a matter of who has more men, I would remind you that my army is standing at the ready outside the city walls,” Oberyn said heatedly.

“ _Your_ army?” Lord Florent snorted. “More than half the men belong to the Golden Company, led by that _boy._ ”

“Aegon may or may not be my nephew, but I’m sure he would support -”

“Aegon?” Daenerys said, her voice cutting through the argument like a knife. Everyone fell silent. “Aegon who?” Her voice was dangerously low.

They all looked at Varys.

“For a time there were some who believed he might be your brother Rhaegar’s son: Aegon Targaryen,” Varys said smoothly.

Daenerys’s face contorted with vexation, and she muttered something under her breath that Sansa thought sounded like: ‘another one?’, though she wasn’t sure. “And does he intend to challenge my claim?” she asked, eyes furious.

“No,” Davos said firmly. “He has only recently recovered from a serious case of the grey plague.”

“And it was never his intention to challenge you,” Oberyn said. “It was his wish to marry you and make you queen.”

“I **am** queen,” Daenerys hissed, almost looking ready to breathe fire like one of her dragons.

Another tense silence fell.

“If I might make a suggestion,” Varys said at length, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight.

“Yes?” Davos said, looking relieved.

Varys fixed Daenerys with a mild, but unwavering stare. “You said you did not know what precisely happened to King Stannis in the battle at Winterfell. Did you see his dead body?”

Sansa stopped breathing. Beside her, Davos went very still too.

Daenerys looked affronted. “Of course not. Do you know how many bodies there were? But he was not among the living after the battle. Had he survived, I would have seen him.”

 _Perhaps there is a chance…_ Sansa dared to glance at Davos, and save the same flicker of hope in his eyes.

Varys tittered. “Well, then what I suggest is this,” he cleared his throat fussily, “Grand Maester Gormon will send a raven to Winterfell, asking for the death of the king to be confirmed beyond all doubt. As things stand, we only have a single report, and no proof.”

Daenerys looked even more affronted.

“And?” Davos asked, when Varys paused for too long.

“And we wait for a response,” Varys said, raising a brow.

“Waiting is no hardship. I have ever been a patient man,” Paxter said, looking at Sansa. There was a calculating look in his eyes, and she quickly removed her hand from her stomach, feeling uncomfortably as if he could see through the table.

“What do we do while we wait?” Lord Florent asked, his face sullen.

“And who will rule?” Daenerys asked sharply.

“Oh, I’m certain we will keep busy,” Varys said, tittering again. “And the Hand of the King has been taking good care of the Iron Throne thus far. I suggest we allow him to continue for the nonce.”

“And what if I do not agree?” Daenerys asked in a low, dangerous voice.

“What do you stand to lose?” Varys asked, raising a brow. “It is not your wish to destroy the city using your dragon, am I correct?”

Daenerys shook her head slowly from side to side, though if her glare was anything to go by, she was a hair’s breadth from changing her mind.

“And you have no army with you?”

“Not _yet_.” 

The threat hung in the air for a moment, and Oberyn sat up a little straighter, exchanging wary looks with both Paxter and Daenerys.

“Well, then you have everything to gain by waiting, do you not?” Varys said, threading his fingers together on top of the table, and smiling blandly.

Daenerys’s nostrils flared. “Fine,” she snapped, getting up from her seat. “Prince Oberyn, may I have a word with you in private?” Without waiting for his answer, she strode from the room.

Oberyn smirked at the rest of them. “The Mother of Dragons has good taste.” He got up and followed after her.

They all looked to Paxter once the door had closed behind Oberyn, and though his face remained placid, there was a gleam in his eyes that made Sansa think he relished the position he was now in.

Davos might be able to defend the Iron Throne in Shireen’s name with Paxter’s support, even if both Aegon and Oberyn decided to throw their weight behind Daenerys. But if Paxter decided to support Daenerys too, the situation would be hopeless.

_It all comes down to him. Or the dragon._

“I don’t understand it,” Lord Andrew suddenly said, his brow furrowed. “Why did she fly here ahead of her army?” He shook his head. “It seems absurd. What did she hope to achieve?”

“Does she not realise we could just have her killed?” Paxter said, shaking his head too. “She doesn’t even have guards!”

“If we kill her, her dragon might go on a rampage,” Sansa reminded them. “She said that if we attempt to harm or bind the dragon or her, she would not be responsible for his actions.”

“It might be worth the risk,” Paxter said. “We have scorpions. If the beast rampages, we should be able to shoot it down. Lady Brienne has wounded the creature before; she could do it again, I’d wager.”

“But at what cost?” Davos said, shaking his head. “The dragon could kill thousands and set half the city aflame before we manage to kill it. You all know what it did in the crownlands. It is not a beast to be trifled with.”

“But why did she come alone?” Lord Andrew asked again, his tone more insistent, his eyes troubled.

The question settled in Sansa’s bones like lead, weighing her down and disturbing her. She thought back to their conversation in the Dragonpit, frowning. The decision to come alone might have made sense if Daenerys believed she was flying into the arms of a fresh army, ready and willing to support her. But she had not seemed to know about the army from Dorne or the Golden Company.

“She must have felt time was of the essence,” Davos said, his eyes thoughtful.

“But why?” Lord Andrew asked. “If King Stannis is dead and the Others have been defeated, she should have felt confident that she had all the time she needed to bring her men back south. The only reasons I can think she could have had for hurrying are if she was racing to be the first one back, or if she was running away from some threat.”

“Lord Varys, Maester Gormon,” Davos said, looking at the two men in turn, his brow heavy. “Find out what you can."

As they all rose to leave, Sansa waited to catch Paxter on their way out, touching his arm to gain his attention.

“Can Princess Shireen and I rely on your support, my lord?” she asked quietly.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Paxter said at once.

Sansa smiled and nodded, but his answer gave her no relief. As much as she wanted to, she did not trust his word.

***

“What?” Shireen’s voice was tiny and broken, and she was staring at Sansa and Davos in turn, as if one of them might take pity on her and tell her that it was all a lie.

“We only have Daenerys’s word for it, but it seems unlikely that she would lie,” Davos said gently, his expression heavy with grief and sympathy.

“She didn’t see Stannis’s body,” Sansa said, wanting to give Shireen the small hope that she was clinging to, “but she didn’t see him among the living after the battle, either.”

“So he might just have been injured? Maybe they simply hadn’t found him?” Shireen asked, blinking rapidly.

“It’s possible,” Davos said slowly, “but we really should prepare ourselves for the worst. We should receive word from Winterfell in a few days' time.”

Shireen nodded, looking pale and serious and older than her years.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Sansa asked after a short silence, not wishing to intrude on Shireen’s grief with matters of state, and hating the fact that she had to. “If he’s really gone, you are now the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Shaking her head violently, Shireen made a noise that hurt Sansa’s heart. “I can’t,” she said, her voice tearful. “I’m not - I’m not ready.”

Davos enveloped her in his arms, and whispered consoling words to her, rocking her from side to side as if she were a babe in arms.

Sansa’s stomach squeezed in on itself, her thoughts turning towards the baby in her womb. The urge to tell Shireen about it was almost overpowering, as she was sure Shireen would be relieved to hear of it. To know that she might only be queen until Sansa gave birth to a son. But wouldn’t it be cruel to give Shireen that hope, only for it to be taken away if Sansa lost the baby? Instead of saying anything, Sansa embraced Shireen as soon as Davos released her, hugging her as tightly as she could.

“You’re not alone,” she promised. “Davos and I will be here to help you. Everything will be well.”

Shireen clung to her, squeezing Sansa back, and for a moment Sansa closed her eyes and let herself take comfort in Shireen’s warmth, and grieve for her own losses.

 _Everything will be well,_ she repeated to herself, even though she was not quite ready to believe it. _Please, gods, let everything be well._


	31. No True Knight

“Your Grace, may I have a moment? I won’t keep you long.”

Sansa looked around to see Aegon jogging to catch up with her, his hair in disarray and his face flushed with exercise. He was wearing light armour, and Sansa guessed he’d just been on the training field. She, on the other hand, was much more formally dressed, having donned a velvet gown in Baratheon colours, her sable cloak, and her tiara, in order to make the right impression in the city.

“Can’t it wait, ser?” she asked, glancing at Ser Gerald and Brienne. “I’m on my way to meet Princess Shireen. We are going to the Great Sept of Baelor and the treatment houses.”

Aegon came to a halt an arm’s length away and raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Sansa understood his surprise. 

Daenerys had ridden through the city early that morning, accompanied by Prince Oberyn, his daughters and dozens of Dornish guards. The people of the city had quit their hiding places and taken to the streets, chasing the party as it made its way to the River Gate and beyond. It had been even worse when Daenerys and her guards returned from the military camp on the other side of the Blackwater Rush. The people had nearly been rioting, hurling obscenities at Daenerys and demanding justice for the hardships her siege had wrought and for her dragon’s head on a pike. Daenerys had returned to the Red Keep hours ago, but the people were still roaming the streets, and though Ser Rolland Storm and the men of the City Watch were keeping the situation from spiralling completely out of control, Sansa knew something had to be done.

“We’re going to address the people of the city first,” Sansa said, hoping she looked calmer about the prospect than she felt. “We must explain Daenerys and her dragon are not here to harm them, and tell them the war in the north has been won.”

Aegon was still looking at her in disbelief. 

Sansa sighed. “Well, she does not intend to harm them _yet_.” The knots in her stomach tightened, and she had to take a deep breath.

“Will you be safe in the city, my queen?” Aegon asked, staring at her with a deep furrow between his brows.

“We will be well guarded.”

“Good,” Aegon said, nodding to himself. He glanced at Ser Gerald and Brienne. They were both watching the conversation with avid interest, though Brienne was more circumspect. “Might we step over here?” he asked, clearing his throat and pointing at a nearby alcove.

Sansa nodded and followed him, though she knew their conversation would hardly become private when they were still only a few paces away from Ser Gerald. (He even made to walk after them, but Brienne grabbed his cloak and held him in place.)

“I just wanted to say,” Aegon said, swallowing and looking suddenly awkward, “that… I’m here if you need anyone to talk to.” He looked down at his feet. “About your father. Like you were there for me,” he finished, his gaze intense and serious.

Father’s long face appeared in her memory, watching her with his grey eyes, a rare smile on his lips. A lump found its way to Sansa’s throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment. _How can it be that I will never see him again?_ “That’s very kind of you,” she said, though it was difficult to speak. “Thank you.”

“I know I have no name,” Aegon said, looking straight into her eyes, his voice low and passionate, “and that I’m just the leader of a company of exiled warriors, but -” He broke off, swallowing. “Have you ever come close to feeling the Stranger’s kiss?” he asked suddenly, searching her face.

Sansa shook her head.

“It’s… frightening,” Aegon confessed quietly. “I have never been so afraid. Nor have I ever felt such pain.” He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they were blazing. “I will never forget what you did for me and the company, Your Grace.”

“It was nothing,” Sansa said, her cheeks warming.

“It was _not_ nothing,” Aegon said fiercely. “Your visits were the only painless moments I had. They saved my life just as surely as Princess Shireen’s treatment did. And for that you have my friendship. For as long as you want it.”

Sansa’s heartbeat quickened, and she wondered whether he was saying what she thought he was saying. “Does your uncle know you are telling me this?” The thumping of her heart was making her thick cloak uncomfortably warm.

“Prince Oberyn is not my uncle,” Aegon said, his eyes flashing stubbornly. “And the Golden Company is contracted to me, not him.”

Sansa nodded, but hesitated before she spoke. “I hope you know you have my friendship, too,” she said, reaching out to clasp one of his hands. “You’re a good man, Aegon.”

Aegon looked into her eyes for a moment, and then very briefly at her mouth before squeezing his eyes shut. Without opening them, he brought their clasped hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers, lingering just a heartbeat longer than he ought to have done.

Once he was gone Sansa stood still, her cheeks still a little too warm, her heart still beating a little too fast. For a brief moment her mind was full of what-ifs, but she squeezed her eyes shut and pushed them away. _Stannis may yet be alive. And I am likely pregnant with his child._

There was no room in Sansa’s heart for what-ifs.

“What was that about?” Ser Gerald asked when Sansa returned to him and Brienne.

Sansa rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Do you expect me to believe you weren’t listening?”

Ser Gerald grinned. “Well, no.”

“Then you know he was just being kind.”

“Kind?” Ser Gerald raised a brow and glanced at Brienne. “He was declaring his support for you and Queen Shireen.”

“Don’t call her that yet. We still don’t know if Stannis is really gone,” Sansa said, breathing through the sharp pang in her chest. _I never knew hope could have such jagged edges._

Ser Gerald sighed. “Fine. But don’t pretend he was just being _kind_.”

“It did seem that he was declaring his support, Your Grace,” Brienne said, though she was giving Ser Gerald a reproachful look.

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, looking down at her recently kissed fingers and thinking sadly of the perfunctory way Stannis had kissed her hand before boarding _Queen Sansa_ and sailing away. She’d give anything to go back to that moment. Or better yet, to that horrible moment when they had argued so that she could change it somehow. Make it better. She took several deep breaths, doing her best to swallow the confused mixture of hope and grief that was clawing at her insides. “Come,” she eventually said, speaking with difficulty. “Shireen will be wondering where we are.”

The carriage ride into the city was tense. Dozens of mounted gold cloaks surrounded them, keeping the anxious smallfolk at bay, but the noise of the crowd was enough to set Sansa’s teeth on edge. It was difficult to detect individual voices in the roar, but Sansa still caught the occasional snippet.

“Why is the dragon here?”

“Are we all to be burnt alive?”

“When will you kill it?”

“Are we under attack?”

Their fear was palpable, and Sansa half expected the flimsy carriage to break with the weight of it pressing in on them.

“Sansa?”

Sansa was relieved when Shireen spoke, glad to concentrate on something else. But her relief was short-lived.

“Do you think Willas has been avoiding me?” Shireen asked, not looking at Sansa’s face.

Willas had been spending markedly less time with Shireen in the days before Daenerys’s arrival, and correspondingly more time with Sansa, but it all seemed very inconsequential now. Sansa was surprised with Shireen for bringing it up. “I think it is perhaps for the best that he is not with us today,” she said, her eyes fixed on her gloves.

The carriage gave a particularly uncomfortable jolt, and she and Shireen both winced.

“I know that,” Shireen said. “But he’s just been… so busy.” Her voice was small.

Sansa closed her eyes and wished she had the right words. “You shouldn’t worry about him,” she eventually said. “We must value his friendship, and the friendship of House Tyrell, but he is not your bosom friend or your betrothed. If he is too busy to spend time with you, let it be.”

“I know roses have thorns,” Shireen said quietly. “And I’m not simple. I know Willas probably wouldn’t bother talking to me if I weren’t Father’s heir.”

“Don’t say that,” Sansa said quickly. “I’m certain Willas has genuinely enjoyed your conversations. If not, he must be the most talented mummer I’ve ever seen.” Sansa wasn’t trying to spare Shireen’s feelings. She really did think Willas enjoyed speaking to her. The pair of them shared an interest in books and history, and their temperaments were similar. Willas never seemed in a hurry to leave his conversations with Shireen, and Sansa had seen them lose track of time more than once as they debated some point or other.

Shireen looked down. “Do you think I should ask him about it?”

“No,” Sansa said with a touch of regret, thinking of what Willas had said to her in the godswood, and how he had gone from lavishing attention on Shireen one moment and herself the next. Stannis’s voice echoed in her memory, muttering darkly about fickle friends. “Be courteous to him, but do not seek him out.”

Sighing, Shireen shifted on the bench. “I know it’s not important, especially not now…” she gave Sansa a sad look, “but I just wish we could finish talking about _The Nine Voyages._ ” She fiddled with the fabric of her skirt. “It would be nice to talk to someone about something other than… you know.”

Sansa understood. She reached to clasp Shireen’s hand for a moment. “Perhaps you will still have a chance to discuss it.”

Shireen nodded, though she did not look convinced.

Sansa was still wondering whether she should have warned Shireen more firmly away from Willas as they climbed the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. But she put it from her mind once they were at the top, watching the marble plaza fill with their frightened subjects. The gold cloaks were doing their best to steer the flow of the people, but it was no easy task. Soon the plaza was so full that Sansa couldn’t see any of the marble beneath their feet. A few people even climbed onto Baelor the Blessed’s plinth, clinging to the statue’s legs to keep from falling down. Above them, the sky was almost clear, but the occasional cloud drifted lazily along, sometimes passing in front of the weak winter sun and covering them all briefly in shadow.

“Do you want to make the announcement or should I?” Sansa asked Shireen.

“Could you?” Shireen asked, biting her lip. “I - I don’t think I’m ready.”

Sansa nodded. She hardly felt ready herself, but she pushed her fear and doubt firmly aside. _Shireen needs me. They all do._ She gave Ser Rolland a signal.

Ser Rolland, wearing gleaming armour and a hard expression, took a step forward and roared at the crowd. “Quiet! Your queen wishes to address you all. Anyone who speaks out of turn will be dragged off to the dungeons for disturbing the king’s peace.”

The crowd fell mostly quiet.

“Thank you all for your patience,” Sansa began, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling at the crowd. “I know how frightening it was when the dragon arrived yesterday, but you need not worry. Daenerys Targaryen still holds to the truce that was agreed upon, and has brought news of the war she and King Stannis have been fighting in the north.”

There were mutters, but on the whole, the atmosphere was quiet and tense. Hundreds of eyes stared up at her, stinging and pricking her skin.

“The Others have been defeated,” Sansa said, making her voice as firm and carrying as she could. “The threat of another Long Night has been averted. You are all safe.”

There was an explosion of noise as her subjects reacted to the news, everyone speaking at once. Ser Rolland scowled and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, but Sansa shook her head at him.

“Where is King Stannis?” someone shouted from the crowd.

Her heart aching, Sansa made herself smile. “King Stannis is still in the north.” _It is not a lie._ Stannis was still in the north, but whether he was alive or dead… She closed her eyes. The crowd was growing more restless by the second, and more questions about Stannis were being shouted. Questions about when he’d be back, and whether the truce would still hold now that the war was over. Questions about the army outside the city walls and whether it would attack. 

Questions Sansa had no answers to.

Panicked, Sansa searched her mind for a way to distract them. She searched and searched for what felt like an eternity, but it must only have been seconds. She opened her eyes, speaking almost as soon as inspiration came in the form of a memory. Something Jeyne had said on Tarth. 

_“Stannis ought to have a tourney when all of this fighting is done.”_

“Now that the war is won, we wish to celebrate,” Sansa said, her voice loud and clear.

Shireen glanced at her, wide-eyed with surprise.

“A month from now we shall have a tourney,” Sansa declared, hoping that Lord Florent would not be very irritated with her; the prizes would cost the Crown thousands in gold dragons. “A victory tourney!”

The crowd went from restless anxiousness to jubilation in a blink of an eye, and if there were more questions about Stannis or the army outside the walls, Sansa did not hear them.

***

The next days in the Red Keep were rife with tension. On the surface the court was full of smiling faces, and there were mentions of the truce in every other sentence. All talk of the dragon in the Dragonpit was studiously avoided; even when its rare screams were clearly audible. Underneath the pleasant surface, everyone was on edge, watching everyone else with bated breath, wondering whose side they were on. Waiting.

Though there had been no public announcement, everyone knew Prince Oberyn was intent on supporting Daenerys’s claim over Shireen’s. His guards followed the dragon queen wherever she went, and they could often be found in each other’s company. Judging by Daenerys’s and Oberyn’s aggressive pursuit of meetings with Paxter, Willas, and Aegon, however, the latter three had yet to change their minds about supporting House Baratheon.

_Until she moves her dragon piece, the cyvasse board is evenly matched._

Today marked the start of the eighth week since Stannis left King’s Landing, and Sansa began it the same way she had begun every morning for the past three days: by retching pathetically into a bowl Ella had hurriedly provided her with.

Ella was the only maid Sansa allowed in her bedchamber in the mornings anymore. They had an unspoken agreement that Ella would not ask about Sansa’s illness, and Sansa would not tell. Sansa also knew that she could trust Ella not to spread any gossip, though it was of course already spreading regardless.

“Your Grace,” Ella said, her eyes flitting nervously from Sansa’s face to the bowl she was clutching. “Might it not be time to consult Grand Maester Gormon?”

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, thinking longingly of Jeyne’s tonics.

“Try to eat something.” Ella offered her a bit of bread from a breakfast tray she had brought. “My mother used to say it’s worse when your stomach is empty.”

Sansa forced the bread down, knowing that Ella was right.

“Should I send for the grand maester now?” Ella asked, watching as Sansa chewed.

Sansa did not answer straight away. If Maester Gormon came and confirmed that Sansa was with child, the news would immediately get out, and the thread the truce with Daenerys and Oberyn was hanging by would likely snap.

 _But it is like to snap at any moment, anyway,_ Sansa thought. _As soon as word arrives from the north, or perhaps if Aegon or the Reach lords are persuaded to switch sides._

It was strange to think about how everyone might react to the news of her pregnancy. She knew Shireen, Jeyne, and all of her friends would be delighted, but she worried about what Daenerys and Oberyn might do. Would they be tempted to harm her? 

And what of Aegon? How would he react to the news?

He had been so sweet to her lately, always making sure to remind her that he was ready and willing to listen if she wished to speak to him of her loss when their paths crossed, but otherwise keeping himself occupied on the training field or visiting the camp outside the city. Would he see her differently if he found out she was pregnant? Would his fancy for her fade? His friendship falter? She didn’t want to believe he could be that fickle, but Stannis’s distrustful voice was constantly muttering at the back of her mind, suspicious of everyone and everything.

Sansa guessed that Willas and Paxter would be happy to have her pregnancy announced, and that it would only solidify their support of her. They had both been keeping more to the Maidenvault since Daenerys had arrived, but whenever Sansa had seen them, they had been very courteous and attentive, asking after her health and concerning themselves with her comfort.

She was near certain that they had some plan that involved herself and the rumoured baby, and she had the sinking feeling she knew what it was.

 _They will always have to support Shireen first,_ she reminded herself. The pregnancy did not truly change very much, after all. Shireen was still the heir, and would be until Sansa had given birth to a healthy boy. _If I have a girl, Shireen would still be first in line._ And that was assuming that Sansa would manage to keep the baby at all. She might not know very much about these things, but she knew how often ladies lost babies.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and bit the inside of her cheek, her heart beating too hard as she thought of all the wine she’d had before Jeyne had said that it was bad for babies. She had usually always had one cup with dinner.

“Your Grace?” Ella said, looking concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Sansa said, trying to smile as she pushed the breakfast tray away.

“Are you certain?” Ella took the tray and placed it on a table nearby. “I know I’ve not had any training, and that I’m no maester, but my mother knew cures to all sorts of ailments.” She hesitated. “Especially ailments that troubled women.”

Sansa considered the matter. Could it hurt to ask Ella about the wine? _I could make it sound as if I’m asking on Jeyne’s behalf._

Mind made up, Sansa took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Jeyne said Maester Gormon told her that drinking wine is bad for ladies in her condition. And I’m worried… well, _she’s_ worried she may have damaged her chances by drinking wine before she even knew she was pregnant.” Her cheeks warmed at the half-truth, but it couldn’t be helped.

Ella furrowed her brow. “I would guess that overindulging is probably not good, but I don’t think a little wine with meals could damage anything. Mother even used to tell pregnant women to drink small beer or watered wine rather than unboiled water.”

“Really?” Sansa couldn’t quite let herself believe it, but a fraction of the weight she had been carrying lifted off her shoulders nonetheless.

“I think so,” Ella said, giving Sansa a pointed look. “But _Lady Jeyne_ should discuss it with Grand Maester Gormon.”

Sansa blushed more hotly. “I’ll tell her that.”

***

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Sansa looked up from her book to find Jeyne standing in the doorway, closing Stannis’s solar door gently behind her. She was wearing a sapphire blue gown cut to flatter her gently rounded belly, and her hair twisted prettily into plaits and coils.

“Have I?” Sansa said, closing _The Red Dragon and the Black_ with a thud and staring intently down at the book’s cover, guilt tightening her chest. “I didn’t mean to.” It was a lie. She _had_ been avoiding Jeyne and her suspicious little looks.

“Aren’t we friends?” Jeyne asked, sounding hurt. “You’ve barely allowed me to offer my condolences.”

Anger flared up from out of nowhere, pushing the guilt aside and burning in Sansa’s gut. “I’m sorry if being unable to offer your condolences has upset you. I’m sure it’s much worse than enduring the loss of a husband and father.”

Jeyne took a step back, blinking rapidly. “That isn’t fair,” she said, her voice raw. “My husband and father might be dead too, for all I know.”

The anger disappeared as quickly as it had flared up, leaving a bad taste in Sansa’s mouth. She got up from Stannis’s desk and walked over to Jeyne, reaching for her hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she said, her heart aching when she saw the tears in Jeyne’s eyes. “I’m just… short-tempered lately.”

Jeyne pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and dabbed her face. “I know what you mean,” she said with a short, wet laugh, peering over the lace edge of her kerchief.

Blushing, Sansa looked away.

“I’m here, you know,” Jeyne said quietly, putting the handkerchief away. “When you’re ready.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment and then threw her arms around Jeyne, careful to be gentle with her. “I’ve been praying for Devan and everyone at Winterfell,” she whispered. “I didn’t forget.”

Jeyne hugged her back tightly. “I know. I’ve been praying too. Oh, but Sansa… I’m so sorry about Lord Stark,” she whispered. “Your father was always kind to me, and I know Father loved him well. He was a good lord.”

“He was,” Sansa whispered. _Life will never be the same without him._ Gods, how she longed to be with her family, to comfort her mother and cry with her brothers and sister… _But I don’t even know if they’re alive,_ she thought with a horrible pang. She knew that Arya was well, but Daenerys hadn’t said anything about Sansa’s mother or her brothers. Twice Sansa had almost marched to her apartments to ask her, but she had stopped herself both times. Seeking Daenerys out was not wise.

“And I know we’re still waiting to find out for certain, but I’m sorry about King Stannis too. I know you loved him,” Jeyne said, still holding Sansa close. “Though I still don’t know why. He was terrifying.” She gave a nervous, wet laugh.

Sansa gave a wet laugh of her own, but it soon turned into sobs.

He _was_ terrifying. At first. But then Sansa had come to know him, and she’d learnt that there was so much more to him than his scowls and sharp tongue. _But how much more? How much was there left to discover?_

“It isn’t fair,” Sansa said in between shuddered breaths, her heart breaking all over again.

“I know,” Jeyne said in a sad voice, stroking Sansa’s back. “I know.”

***

Four days had gone by since Daenerys had arrived in King’s Landing, and Sansa woke up feeling more nauseated than ever. Ella did her best, but even after forcing down a bland breakfast and lingering in bed, Sansa was still poorly. Hoping fresh air would help, Sansa went to the gardens for a walk. Brienne trailed after her at a distance, allowing Sansa the illusion of solitude.

The past few days had been unusually bright and warm, and today the sky was a clear, beautiful blue. A cold breeze disturbed the air, but it was almost pleasant when compared to the bitter, biting winds Sansa had grown used to over the darkest winter months. 

Whether it was due to the fresh air or the exercise, Sansa’s nausea did thankfully abate, leaving her mind free to dwell on the multitude of other concerns that weighed on her, and most especially on her largest problem: Daenerys. 

_How am I to move forward with Daenerys and Oberyn without bringing a war down upon us all?_

She knew that with every minute that went by, news from the north flew closer, and that soon this strange period of waiting would come to an end.

_It is all like a game of cyvasse; the screen is still up for the nonce, and we are all scrambling to arrange our pieces, but soon the screen will no longer be there. And then the game will really begin._

How could she keep her subjects from getting caught in the middle of it all? If Daenerys and Obery’s army attacked, there would be blood in the streets.

Laughter interrupted Sansa’s thoughts: a delighted, feminine sound.

Quickening her step, Sansa rounded a cluster of barren rose bushes to see Daenerys and Willas, walking arm in arm and laughing as if it were a fine spring day. A sullen Dornish guard was trailing after them, but aside from him, they were alone.

Sansa had to work very hard to keep her face still. “Good morning,” she said, though it would soon be midday.

Daenerys immediately stopped laughing, her lips thinning. Willas’s mild smile stayed in place, however, and he inclined his head. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Fine day,” Sansa said, smiling back. Inside she was staring at her cyvasse board with her heart in her throat, wondering whether the Reach was abandoning her. Abandoning Shireen.

“Indeed!” Willas said, “I was just saying that I believe spring might be in the air.”

 _And that made Daenerys laugh like that?_ Sansa made herself continue to smile. “After three years of winter, spring would be most welcome,” she said, watching Daenerys more than Willas.

_Is she attempting to seduce the Reach to her side? Or is Willas attempting to talk his way into her good graces?_

Daenerys was still pressing her lips together tightly, and there were dark half-moons beneath her eyes, but she was otherwise looking well. Her hair was half up in tight, complicated plaits, and half down with plenty of loose silver-gold strands flowing over one shoulder. She was wearing a fiery, orange gown that shimmered like those Nymeria liked to wear, and in places the fabric was perfectly sheer, revealing glimpses of skin and exotic jewels beneath.

 _Isn’t she cold?_ Sansa wondered fleetingly, wrapping her cloak more tightly around herself.

But the gown revealed more than Daenerys’s figure, and Sansa’s heart calmed as she realised it. _She is wearing House Martell’s colours._ It seemed unlikely that she would have chosen to wear Martell colours or a Dornish style of gown if she had set out to woo Willas to her side. _And surely Willas is not trying to convince Daenerys to marry him rather than Trystane Martell?_ Their betrothal was practically ironclad. At least, if Oberyn’s hints and insinuations over the past days were to be believed.

“Most welcome indeed,” Willas agreed, still smiling. “And if spring truly is coming, I would remind you of your promise, my queen.”

Sansa blinked. “What promise do you speak of, my lord?”

Willas looked shyly at his feet and then back up at her. “To visit Highgarden.”

Sansa couldn’t recall such a promise. But she remembered the night when she had discussed a visit to Highgarden with Willas and Margaery, and she remembered Robb and Grey Wind coming to interrupt. But the memory seemed strangely distant. Almost as if it had happened in another life.

“Highgarden is supposedly very beautiful,” Sansa said to Daenerys.

Daenerys pursed her lips. “So I’ve heard.”

Willas’s eyes crinkled and he looked down at his feet.

“But I’m sure you must have seen beautiful places on the other side of the Narrow Sea unlike anything Willas or I could imagine,” Sansa said courteously, hoping to keep the conversation as civil as possible.

“I suppose,” Daenerys said, eyeing her with obvious distrust. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just - I’ve read poems and stories about places in Essos,” Sansa explained, her cheeks warming. “But I know that’s not the same as seeing it all, real and full of life right in front of your eyes.”

Daenerys tilted her head to the side, looking more intrigued than distrustful now. “Poems?” She raised a brow. “Such as?”

Sansa closed her eyes and searched her memory for something she thought might appeal to Daenerys, her heart beating quickly, and her clothes suddenly much too hot. 

“ _From the depths of the Smoking Sea, arise the summits of a fallen city, touched by magic, fringed in fear -_ ”

Daenerys smiled, and her eyes brightened. “ _The cries of dragons in the air._ ”

“You know it?” Sansa asked, a small thrill of excitement swooping through her. Daenerys was always beautiful, but her smile made her seem closer to the ground, somehow. Reachable.

“‘Night in Valyria’? Of course,” Daenerys said, lifting her chin.

“My sister always loved that poem best,” Sansa said. “That one, and the songs about Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar.”

For a moment Daenerys looked conflicted, and Sansa held her breath, wondering whether bringing Arya up had been a mistake. “Your sister was very interested in my children,” Daenerys said, her expression becoming shadowed. “... Not afraid.”

Sansa imagined Arya sneaking out of Winterfell’s warmth and attempting to feed the dragons - or something equally mad - and wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. “They are magical,” she said, still a little lost in bittersweet thoughts. “I’m sure there are many - like my sister - who have dreamed of seeing a dragon, or riding one as you have.”

“Not many in King’s Landing,” Daenerys said, her face hardening.

 _No. Not after you taught them to fear the dragonfire._ Sansa thought of the destruction in the crownlands and frowned. “The people of King’s Landing have had a long, hard winter.”

“And yet _they_ didn’t have to fight any wights.” Daenerys’s voice was cold.

Sansa clasped her hands in front of her, her heartbeat quickening. Was this the chance she had been hoping for? She glanced at Willas, wishing he weren’t there, but decided she had to ask.

“Daenerys,” she said, looking into her violet eyes. “I’m sorry to ask this of you - the battle in Winterfell must have been such a terrible ordeal - but… do you know anything more of my family’s fate?”

Willas cleared his throat. “I think I will go and speak to Lady Brienne,” he said quietly.

Sansa did not watch him go, but she could hear the sound of feet on gravel, growing fainter as he neared Brienne.

“I’m not sure, _Sansa_ ,” Daenerys said pointedly. Angrily. The genuine smile the poem had teased from her was long gone.

“Please,” Sansa said. She did not want to argue over titles or proper forms of address. “They’re my family. If there’s anything you could tell me, _anything_ , I would be most grateful.”

For a moment Daenerys continued to glare, but then her eyes suddenly softened, and she gave a small nod. “Robb Stark was injured,” she said after thinking the matter over. “I don’t know whether he recovered from his wounds. But your mother is well, and the younger boys. The wolves and that old knight, Ser Brynden Tully, kept them safe.”

Sansa’s relief for her mother, Uncle Brynden, Bran, and Rickon was a living thing, flowing and expanding within her heart, but her fear for Robb soon overpowered everything. “Robb was injured?” she said, covering her mouth with a hand, half wishing that she had not asked Daenerys anything. _Gods. Please no. Not Robb as well._

“And one of the wolves died, I think,” Daenerys went on. “Not Ghost. One of the other three.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut against the tears welling up, and took several deep breaths. Once she thought she would be able to speak without losing control of herself, she opened her eyes and shakily removed her hand from her mouth. “You know Ghost?”

A shadow passed over Daenerys’s face, but she nodded tightly. “Yes.”

“And Jon,” Sansa said, thinking of how often Daenerys had mentioned him.

“I thought I did,” Daenerys said, smiling bitterly and looking away.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” Sansa said, though she had a vague memory of seeing him in a dream not long ago. It was so strange to think of him riding a dragon. _Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch_. Every time she remembered what Daenerys had said about him, she wondered if she wasn’t just dreaming again. “I hope he’s well,” she said, almost to herself.

“He’s fine.” There was a twitch of grief and anger, and then Daenerys’s face was still. “I must go.”

Sansa did not say anything as Daenerys swept past, and watched as she strode by Willas and Brienne without so much as pausing, the Dornish guard hurrying after her. Willas looked neither surprised nor offended by this, though his eyes followed her until she was gone from sight.

Slowly, Sansa made her way over to them.

“Was she able to tell you anything about your family, Your Grace?” Willas asked, his voice concerned.

“A little,” Sansa said, not trusting herself to talk about it.

“She told me Margaery is well.” Willas smiled to himself. “But I knew it would take more than a few thousand wights to upset Margaery’s composure.”

Sansa feigned an amused breath even though laughter was the furthest thing from her mind. “I’m sure.” _How can she be well if Robb is wounded, and she is pregnant? She must be so frightened._ Sansa looked down at her hands, clasped limply in front of her. Her fingers were numb. All of her was numb.

Willas offered her his arm, and she took it in a daze. They ambled along the path for a while, gravel crunching beneath their feet and the breeze disturbing the barren bushes and trees they passed. The air smelled cold, but there was a subtle, hopeful aroma of wet earth, too.

“Why were you escorting Daenerys?” Sansa eventually asked, having regained some of her composure.

“Our paths crossed,” Willas said. “It seemed the courteous thing to do.”

 _And if she had been cold, would you have given her your cloak?_ “You weren’t making sure she knows how ‘astonishingly beautiful’ she is?” she asked lightly.

Willas gave her a sidelong glance, a small, surprised laugh escaping him. “I’m fairly certain she does not need to be told.”

“But I do?”

Willas stopped walking. “Your Grace,” he said, voice contrite, “if I have offended you -”

“Please,” Sansa said, turning to look into his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Can the Crown rely on you and your uncle? On the Reach?”

“Of course,” Willas said, taking a step closer to her. “House Tyrell is eager to honour the agreement that was made,” he said softly. “Or if that agreement cannot be honoured… we would be willing to seek a different one.”

 _A different agreement with House Baratheon? Or with Daenerys Targaryen?_ Stannis’s voice whispered.

Sansa stared at him, her thoughts racing. She knew that the original agreement he was referring to was the agreement Stannis had made with Mace Tyrell, to wed Sansa’s firstborn son to one of Mace’s granddaughters. But Willas’s behaviour towards Shireen and herself made her think that the new agreement he was now aiming for involved being crowned king himself. 

_But which queen does he hope to rule beside?_

Depending on whether Sansa had a boy - and on whether Stannis was truly gone - he could attempt to marry her or Shireen. And if he threatened to support Daenerys’s rule, it would be difficult to refuse him.

Sansa swallowed, tasting bile. “What manner of different agreement, my lord?” _Do you even care which one of us you’d end up wed to?_

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Willas said soothingly, reaching out to take her hand and lift it to his lips. His kiss was just as a courtly kiss should be, and nothing like the lingering press of Aegon’s lips, or Stannis’s barely restrained touches.

 _Because there is nothing behind it._ Sansa’s insides were suddenly empty. _Nothing but House Tyrell’s desire for power._ She was not shocked by this realisation. She had suspected this for a while, though she had been hoping that he was just being chivalrous. And... she had hoped that at least a part of his interest in her - even just a very small part - had been due to _her,_ and not his family’s schemes. Just as she hoped that he derived genuine enjoyment from his conversations with Shireen.

_Has it all been a mummer’s farce? A plot?_

“I think I’m going to sit out here for a little while, my lord,” Sansa said when Willas made to start walking again. “Please go on without me.”

Willas gave a bow, his kind, honey-brown eyes never leaving her face.

Sansa found a nearby bench and sat down, staring straight ahead without truly seeing a single detail of the view in front of her. The crunch of gravel beneath Willas’s feet grew fainter and fainter until Sansa couldn’t hear it anymore. She swallowed and continued to stare at nothing, her insides writhing.

After a while, Brienne came and sat beside her. She looked at the expression on Sansa’s face for a few quiet moments, and then, without saying a word, she put an arm around her shoulders, and tugged her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sansa recites to Daenerys was inspired by [Night On The Mountain](https://fourteenlines.blog/tag/night-on-the-mountain-by-george-sterling/) by George Sterling.


	32. Two Dragons

Hours after Sansa’s encounter with Daenerys and Willas in the gardens - after eating a bland midday meal, a short meeting with Davos, and a drawn out meeting with Lord Florent where he had done a great deal of complaining about the victory tourney she had promised the people of the city - her mind was still as unsettled as her stomach. 

“Are you certain you do not wish to take tea with Shireen and the other ladies?” Brienne asked, her forehead crinkled with concern.

Sansa shook her head and continued to pace from one end of Stannis’s solar to the other. “No, not today.” She was sure Shireen, Jeyne, and the others would wish to help distract her, but she couldn’t face the idea of having to explain why she was upset. Especially not to Shireen.

“I think I will visit Ser Aron,” she said, walking determinedly towards the door where Brienne was standing guard. 

Since the truce with Prince Oberyn came to pass, Ser Aron was no longer being held captive in Maegor’s Holdfast, and was free to mingle with whomever he wished. Sansa had not been visiting him quite as often as she had while he’d been a prisoner, but they kept a game of cyvasse going, making a few moves here and there when they had the time. Sansa had no idea whether she’d be able to concentrate on the board, but Ser Aron was highly unlikely to notice that anything was amiss with her, and unlikely to force her to talk about anything she did not wish to discuss.

In no mood to run into anyone on her way to Ser Aron’s apartments - especially as they were close to Prince Oberyn’s apartments - Sansa took one of the secret passages Varys had shown her during one of her lessons with him. Brienne followed in silence, leaving Sansa to her disjointed thoughts.

_I wish I could fly to Winterfell as easily as Daenerys flew to King’s Landing. I’d be able to visit Robb and Mother and Arya and the boys… see them all with my own eyes… find out how serious Robb’s wounds are..._

_What does Willas truly want? Is the throne the only thing that matters to him? Or is he simply trying to please his family?_

_Why does Daenerys always seem so angry when Jon’s name is brought up?_

But Sansa’s thoughts were soon interrupted by a voice.

“ - think she’s lying. She only needs our army until her real one gets here.”

Sansa stopped in her tracks, her heart suddenly going a mile a minute. _That was Nymeria._

“What is it?” Brienne asked, coming to a halt too.

Bringing a finger to her lips to signal for silence, Sansa stayed still and listened.

“Father thinks she will keep her word,” Obara‘s voice said, carrying over to Sansa and Brienne through a set of little holes in the passage wall nearby.

Sansa hesitated for a moment, but then moved closer to the holes in the wall and peeked through.

Nymeria and Obara were lounging in their sitting room, a platter of bread and fruit preserves within easy reach, and cups of wine in their hands.

“Broden told me she was walking with Father’s crippled friend in the gardens this morning. Smiling and laughing.” Nymeria drained the last of her wine from her cup. “He’s Highgarden’s heir. Who knows what he may have promised her? Besides, you saw the look on her face the same as I did when Father mentioned Trystane to her yesterday.” She put her cup down with more force than necessary. “If she ever marries Trystane, I’ll attend the wedding naked.”

Obara snorted. “You’d do that just to amuse yourself.”

Nymeria threw a piece of bread at her sister. “No I wouldn’t.”

Obara caught the missile and dropped it on the floor with a disgruntled look. “I wouldn’t want to marry anyone if I were her.”

“Well, she’ll have to marry _someone._ ”

“To make an heir?” Obara sipped more wine. “Aegon told me he heard rumours in Essos that Daenerys is barren. Her womb cursed.”

Sansa covered her mouth with a hand to prevent herself from making a noise.

Nymeria sat up straight. “ _What?_ ”

“He said he didn’t believe a word of it,” Obara went on with a shrug, “but who knows? Maybe it’s true.”

“Does Father know?”

“Probably. I doubt he believes it.”

“If it’s true there would be no point marrying Trystane to her,” Nymeria said heatedly, putting her cup down so forcefully that wine sloshed over the side. “I must go speak to Father.”

Obara didn’t get up, but watched with a frown as Nymeria got up and left.

Sansa backed away from the holes in the wall and started walking, her thoughts racing.

 _Why would Daenerys seek the Iron Throne with such a passion if she knows she will not be able to keep it?_ A ruler without an heir was never secure.

“Do you think it’s true, Your Grace?” Brienne asked once they had walked along the passage in silence for a while. “About Daenerys being barren?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said. “But I think I will visit Ser Aron some other time. I should like a word with Aegon.”

After a long search, Sansa and Brienne finally found Aegon up on the parapets as the sun was beginning to set, his face pale as he looked towards the River Gate and the camp beyond the Blackwater Rush.

The sky was as clear as it had been for the past days, and the last rays of the winter sun were blinding compared to the dim corridors of the castle.

“Aegon?” Sansa said, surprised that he hadn’t turned to look at them as they’d approached. He seemed lost in thought.

“They’re leaving,” he said, his voice faint, still staring out across the Blackwater Rush.

“Who is?” 

“My army,” he said, swallowing. “The Golden Company.”

Sansa squinted. There seemed to be a considerable amount of movement in the camp, but more than that she couldn’t make out. “How can you tell?” 

“My captain, Ser Harry Strickland, sent me this,” Aegon said, waving a roll of paper. “He says they can no longer honour the contract Jon Connington and I made with them.”

Sansa’s chest constricted. “I thought the Golden Company’s word was supposed to be ‘good as gold’?”

Aegon clenched his jaw. “I am not ‘who I claimed to be’, and Ser Harry says the lie voids the contract.” Under his breath he added something that sounded a lot like, “craven elephant fucker.”

“And you’re certain they intend to leave?” Sansa asked, almost unable to breathe due to the tightness in her chest. “Might they not have been persuaded to take up with Daenerys?”

“Ser Harry has spoken of nothing but Daenerys’s dragon since she got here,” Aegon said, his voice bitter. “He fears it. Fears the stories of the tricks she has played on other companies of sellswords, and what happened in Meereen. Yunkai. Astapor.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Even Qarth. Everywhere she has gone, she has left ashes in her wake. He is of the opinion that the only thing worse than fighting against Daenerys, is suffering her rule.”

Sansa shook her head, frowning. “Why did he agree to the contract with you and Jon Connington, then? He must have known you intended to marry her?”

“The idea was to claim King’s Landing and then wait for her to join me,” Aegon said, sighing. “I expect he must always have intended to leave once that aim was achieved.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, at a loss for words. She glanced at Brienne, who was standing a polite distance away, taking the view in and appearing to be completely deaf to their conversation, and then back at Aegon.

“I never should have come here,” Aegon whispered. There was a soft crunching sound, and Sansa looked down to see that Aegon had curled his hands into fists, crushing the roll of paper. “Nothing is as it was supposed to be.” He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. “Jon was supposed to be here.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, her sorrow for him sharp in her breast. _He has lost so much in such a short time._ Her own recent losses only made her heart hurt the worse for his.

“Don’t be,” Aegon said, looking at her quickly. His eyes were watery. “Meeting you is the one thing I do not regret.”

Once she might have blushed. But her grief had sapped the blood from her veins, and all she could summon for him was a weak smile. “What will you do? Go with them?”

“I don’t know.” He looked over at the camp beyond the Blackwater Rush again, his brow furrowed.

Sansa bit her lip, considering her next words carefully. “You’re welcome to stay here, as my guest, for as long as you wish,” she said, though she knew Stannis would not approve. She closed her eyes for a moment, a fresh wave of grief hitting her as she pictured his cross expression.

 _He may yet be alive,_ she reminded herself, though her hope grew fainter with every day that went by without news. _If he were alive, would he not be doing everything in his power to get the truth to us?_

“Thank you, my queen,” Aegon said, his eyes still fixed on the distant camp.

Sansa was about to leave him be when she recalled why she had sought him in the first place. She hesitated, wondering whether this was the appropriate moment to ask. But curiosity won out in the end. “Aegon, may I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he turned his head to give her an attentive look.

“I… I heard a rumour,” she said, biting her lip. “About Daenerys.”

“What rumour?”

“That she’s… barren.”

Aegon nodded. “I’ve heard it too. When I was still travelling with Jon in Essos, we came across a knight that used to be in Daenerys’s service.” He furrowed his brow in concentration. “I think his name was Ser Jorah Mormont.”

 _The exiled lord of Bear Island?_ Sansa had been very young when her father had gone on his failed journey to execute Jorah, but she’d heard him mentioned every now and again throughout the years. _The man who was so desperate to please his young, pretty wife with silk gowns and baubles that he sold men into slavery to repay his debts._ Sansa had always thought it a sad ending. The story of his victory at the Lannisport tourney was like something out of a song, and it would have made for a much better ending if he and his queen of love and beauty had lived happily ever after. Septa Mordane used to say it was an example of a very poor match, and that marriage was about much more than fleeting fancies.

“He told us that a Lhazareen witch had cursed Daenerys’s womb, making it so that she would never bear a living child,” Aegon said, huffing out a derisive breath. “A likely story.”

“You don’t think it’s true?”

“I think the knight was bitter and drunk.”

Sansa nodded, but could not help but wonder whether Jorah might not have been telling the truth. If he had been in Daenerys’s service, there was a chance he might have been close enough to her to know such things.

“My queen - Sansa,” Aegon said, taking a step closer to her. “Do you really wish me to stay?” He searched her eyes intently. “As your guest?”

“What I wish for is your happiness,” Sansa said, reaching to touch his shoulder for a brief moment. “Lord Varys played a cruel trick on you. You did not deserve it.”

Aegon nodded, but there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He looked away. “I will stay long enough to compete in the victory tourney,” he said, nodding to himself.

“And after that?”

He looked out over the city once more. “I don’t know.”

***

“The Golden Company’s departure changes everything,” Davos said, pacing back and forth in his solar, while Sansa sat and watched. The sky outside was indigo, and turning blacker by the minute.

“Does it?” she said, thinking it over. “I’m not sure we’re worse off with them gone. Now at least Daenerys has no way of persuading them to fight for her cause.”

“And that might make her want to strike!” Davos said, his voice agitated. “With the Golden Company gone, we have only Lord Redwyne’s men and the City Watch to stand against the Dornish.

“You don’t think she’ll wait for her armies to sail south?”

“Something compelled her to fly here ahead of them,” Davos said, scrubbing his face with both hands as he paced. “As soon as word from Winterfell arrives we shall know more, but we must be careful -”

A wave of nausea distracted Sansa for a moment, and she missed the next few sentences Davos said. Her nausea usually did not bother her this late in the day, but she had spent the afternoon rushing all over the castle to search for Aegon, and had neglected to eat properly.

“She might be barren,” Sansa hurriedly said, wanting to finish this conversation and retreat to her apartments. “Aegon had it from a knight who used to be in her service.”

“Such a thing is impossible to prove,” Davos said, frowning. “But it’s interesting.”

“And Oberyn’s daughters distrust her. They worry that if Daenerys is barren, it will be pointless to marry her to Trystane Martell,” Sansa went on. “Her alliance with House Martell may not be as solid as we believed.”

“Varys has said as much,” Davos stopped pacing and went to his desk, searching through a pile of papers that lay there. “He thinks they could be turned against each other.” He picked a roll of paper up and stared at it, before rubbing his eyes and putting it back down. “But I would not risk her turning all of her attention towards wooing Lord Redwyne and Willas Tyrell to her side.”

Before either of them said anything else, there was a knock at the door.

Davos had barely opened his mouth to say, “come in”, when the door opened, revealing Maester Gormon on the other side.

Sansa froze when she saw what he was holding, her mind going blank and her knees weakening.

“A raven, my lord,” Maester Gormon said, his eyes serious. He offered Davos the tightly furled roll of paper in his hand. “From Winterfell. And there has been word of approaching ships.”

Sansa began to pray in silence, her whole body shivering.

Frowning, Davos accepted the roll. “What manner of ships? Warships? How many?”

“Unclear as of yet. But they should reach the city at some point tomorrow.”

She made a small, desperate noise. “Davos, the letter.”

Davos broke the seal, his hands visibly shaking. Sansa didn’t breathe while he read, his face a mask of concentration.

“Lady Stark confirms that Lord Eddard Stark died in battle, and that Lady Arya delivered the killing blow to the Night King with a broken piece of the greatsword Ice,” Davos said, his eyes still moving from side to side. “They have yet to find King Stannis’s body, but he has not turned up alive either. Lady Stark fears he may be one of the unrecognisable ones.” He swallowed and looked up.

Sansa could only meet his eyes for a moment before she had to look away, squeezing her eyes shut. _It is truly a fool’s hope, now._ Doing her best to breathe around the lump in her throat and the weight on her chest, she made herself open her eyes again. 

“Does she say anything about why Daenerys flew south by herself? The state of her armies?” Maester Gormon asked, urgency in his voice.

Davos nodded. “Apparently she had an argument with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch shortly before taking flight. Lady Stark claims she has questioned him, but he refuses to tell her what it was about.” He read in silence for a moment. “Her armies were badly damaged. Most of the Dothraki were killed, and a large part of Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet - as well as the royal fleet - was burned by the dragon wight. Victarion perished, and a quarter of his men.”

“Well, I certainly won’t mourn them.” Maester Gormon frowned at Sansa. “Do you know why your half-brother might have argued with Daenerys?”

Sansa thought it over, though it took her several moments to make her mind cooperate. She took deep breaths and tried to recall everything Daenerys had said in the Dragonpit. “Perhaps it has something to do with the dragons? When I first greeted her I think she said something about one of them betraying her. Maybe Jon refused to relinquish control of the dragon he flew during the battle?”

“That’s certainly a possibility,” Maester Gormon said thoughtfully. “Though why she should have considered it a betrayal, I don’t know. Once a dragon bonds with a rider, it will not suffer another person to mount it. Unless of course the bonded rider is present as well. Daenerys would most likely have known this, and should not have expected your half-brother to be able to relinquish a dragon he had bonded with.”

Sansa remembered having read something along those lines, and frowned. “Maybe they argued about something else, then.”

“I suppose we could ask Daenerys,” Davos said, though his expression was doubtful.

“I don’t think she’d tell us.” Sansa glanced at the letter in Davos’s hand. “Did my mother write anything about Robb?”

“No,” Davos said, frowning at the letter.

Sansa hoped that meant he was still alive. _Mother would have written of his death._ She opened her mouth to ask about Bran and Rickon, but a powerful wave of nausea hit her, and she had to quickly clasp a hand over her mouth.

“Your Grace?” Maester Gormon said, his eyes searching her face.

She shook her head, hand still firmly covering her mouth. An unladylike gagging noise escaped her.

Davos was looking at her with dawning understanding, and he calmly walked over to a wash basin in the corner of his solar and brought it to her. She accepted it, retching into it almost the second it was in her hands.

“Perhaps I should leave you two be,” Davos said slowly. “I have seen Marya in this condition often enough, but I’m sure you will want to examine her to make certain, Grand Maester.”

“I think I had better,” Maester Gormon said in a grave tone of voice.

Sansa looked up as soon as she could, wondering whether it was possible to be more miserable. “I want Brienne to come inside if I am to be examined,” she said, trying to sound dignified.

“I’ll send her in,” Davos said, already walking towards the door.

Brienne looked alarmed when she appeared. “Your Grace? What’s happened?” she asked, looking from Sansa to Maester Gormon and to the basin Sansa was still clutching.

“Nothing to worry about,” Maester Gormon said, smiling mildly. “I’m to examine Her Grace, and she wished for you to be present.”

“Examine her?” Her eyes sharpened and she glared at Maester Gormon. “Why?”

“I think I’m pregnant,” Sansa said, relief coursing through her as she finally said the words aloud.

Brienne’s eyebrows climbed nearly to her hairline, and her cheeks pinkened. “I see.” Clearing her throat, she shifted to take up a familiar post near the door, clearly hoping to make herself as invisible as she could. No easy feat for someone so tall.

“That would be my guess, too,” Maester Gormon said. “But let us see.”

He began to question her then, mortifying questions about her moon blood and whether she had lain with Stannis before he left, and even more awkward questions about the smell when she made water and whether her breasts had been tender of late. While he questioned her, he prodded at her stomach and examined the contents of the basin she had retched into.

Sansa tried to answer him as truthfully as she could, blushing hotly and growing more anxious by the minute. Finally she could not bear to wait any longer.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think you are most likely with child,” he said, nodding to himself. “The next time you make water, have a cupful brought to me. I know of a test that almost never fails to reveal the truth.”

Blushing hotly once more, Sansa nodded. “What manner of test?”

“You wish to know?”

She nodded again.

“It is simple enough,” he said, smiling kindly. “The urine is mixed with wine. The colour of the mixture usually reveals the truth to those who know what to look for.” He tapped the side of his nose.

 _Wine._ Sansa bit her lip. “Jeyne says you told her that drinking wine is bad for the baby,” she blurted, her heart thudding painfully.

“Quite right, quite right. Better to steer clear of such indulgences, my queen.”

“But - I didn’t know,” Sansa said, breathing too quickly. “I had wine before I suspected -”

“Don’t fret, dear,” Maester Gormon said kindly, his eyes softening. “Queen Cersei made it through three healthy pregnancies, and I’m told she was in her cups throughout.” He gave a little laugh. “In truth,” he said, growing serious once more, “it is more important that you keep calm, remember to rest, and eat regular meals.”

Sansa blinked rapidly and restrained herself from throwing her arms around his neck. “Truly?” she said, her voice full of emotion.

“Truly.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, her heart lighter than it had been in months. “Thank you, Grand Maester.”

“Not at all,” he said, still regarding her with soft eyes. “Don’t hesitate to send for me if there are any changes, or any symptoms that worry you. Would you like a tonic for your mother’s stomach? I can have a flask or two sent to your apartments if you wish.”

Sansa nodded gratefully.

Right before Maester Gormon left, he turned to fix her with a serious look. “Don’t forget to rest, Your Grace. Overexertion is far worse for ladies in your condition than overindulgence.”

***

“Oh, Sansa,” Jeyne said, hugging her so tightly that Sansa could barely breathe. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

Shireen, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa all smiled, watching Sansa and Jeyne fondly. They were in Sansa’s sitting room, their sewing projects in baskets that dangled off their arms. They had arrived several hours early for their usual sewing circle, having heard yesterday’s happy news and wanting it confirmed straight from the source.

“Our children will grow up together,” Jeyne continued with happy tears in her eyes. “Just like we did.”

“I hope so,” Sansa said, pushing all thoughts of Daenerys, Oberyn, dragons, the Golden Company’s departure, and her mother’s disappointing letter from her mind.

“I’m so happy,” Shireen whispered when she had her turn embracing Sansa.

“Truly?” Sansa whispered back, her heart expanding and fluttering nervously. “You’re not angry with me for keeping it a secret? I wanted to tell you, I swear it, but I wasn’t certain, and I was worried -”

“Of course I’m happy,” Shireen said, pulling back from the hug so they’d be able to look each other in the eyes. Shireen’s eyes were shining. “I’m going to have a little brother or sister.”

A cross between a laugh and sob came from deep within Sansa’s chest, and she nodded, too overcome to speak.

Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa all had their turn congratulating Sansa, and soon they had all settled down comfortably with their embroidery, though none of them were truly paying their needlework much mind.

The ladies all wanted to hear how Sansa had found out she was pregnant, and she blushingly told them how she’d ended up being sick in front of poor Davos and Grand Maester Gormon. “But I’ve suspected since the night Shireen had her first flowering,” Sansa finished. “I realised then that I hadn’t had my courses in more than a month.”

“Oh,” Alynna said, looking from Sansa to Shireen. “Both Mother and Maiden must have been roaming the castle that night.” She smiled. “Remember how startled you were, Your Grace?”

“Why were you meeting with Davos and Maester Gormon, Sansa?” Shireen asked with a strong air of wishing to change the subject, her cheeks a little pink.

Sansa told the ladies of the letter from her mother, and soon they were debating whether Stannis might not be alive, despite not having been found yet.

“I’ve heard stories of men turning up, days and days after battles,” Carellen said earnestly, “badly wounded and disoriented, but still alive.”

“If Father is alive, he must be either _very_ badly wounded, or trapped somehow,” Shireen said, looking pale and upset. “Otherwise he would have found a way to let his men know he’s alive.”

“Unless he’s hiding?” Marissa suggested, looking at Shireen with uncertain eyes.

“I don’t know why he’d do that,” Alynna said, shaking her head. “But there seems to be a lot we don’t know about what happened in the north.”

Sansa was about to agree, but a faint noise made her stop in order to listen. It sounded like shouting. Far away, but getting closer.

Carellen began to say something, but Sansa raised a hand in a gesture of quiet, and they all looked at her, puzzled.

“Listen,” Sansa said, straining to hear.

The voices were unintelligible at first, but they were moving closer and closer, and finally -

“Where is she?” a loud, female voice was demanding. “I would speak to her. Now.”

_Gods. It’s Daenerys._

“I’m terribly sorry, but the queen is unavailable,” Ser Gerald’s voice said, coming from right outside the door.

“Move. Now.”

“If you’d like, I could ask the queen if she has time for an appointment tomorrow?” Ser Gerald said blithely.

Realising that Ser Gerald was tempting fate, Sansa quickly got up and opened the door. “Is anything a matter?” she asked, looking from Daenerys’s outraged face to Ser Gerald’s amused one. Ser Allard was standing off to the side, looking exasperated.

“Nothing at all, Your Grace,” Ser Gerald said, sounding almost cheerful.

“I would speak to you,” Daenerys said as if Ser Gerald hadn’t spoken, her eyes blazing. She was wearing the same clothing she had worn when she had first arrived, and the air around her seemed… charged.

“Of course,” Sansa said, doing her best to exude calm courtesy even though her heart was currently lodged in her throat. _Has she found out about the letter? The baby?_ “Would you like to come inside? The princess and I were just working on our embroidery.”

“No.” Daenerys’s nostrils flared. “I would speak to you in the Great Hall.”

Taken aback, it took Sansa a moment to respond. “Oh,” she glanced behind her at Shireen, Jeyne and the other ladies, and found five bewildered faces staring back at her. “Very well.”

They walked in silence, side by side with Ser Gerald following along, until the time came to cross the drawbridge that led out of Maegor’s Holdfast. Brienne was standing on the other end of the bridge, glaring at a Dornish guard who had probably been accompanying Daenerys until Brienne had detained him.

“Are you well, my queen?” Brienne whispered, having caught up to Sansa as they began to climb the serpentine steps that lead to the upper levels of the Red Keep. Daenerys climbed quickly, and was a few steps ahead.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said quietly. The fact that Daenerys wanted to talk in the Great Hall was filling her with a terrible sense of dread. “Have you heard anything about the ships that are coming?” She had just recalled the ships Maester Gormon had spoken of yesterday. _Might they be Victarion’s remaining fleet, carrying the survivors of Daenerys’s army to King’s Landing?_

“Nothing, my queen,” Brienne said, her big blue eyes full of concern. “Would you like me to go and find out?”

“No, stay. Please.” Sansa clasped her hand briefly, trying to absorb some of her strength through the touch. 

With a deep breath, Sansa focused on Daenerys again. She had to quicken her pace to catch up, climbing two steps at once. “Could you tell me what you’d like to discuss?” Sansa asked once they were side by side.

“I think you know,” Daenerys said, shooting Sansa sidelong glare and climbing even faster.

Heart beating hard, Sansa resisted the impulse to touch her stomach. “You’ve heard the news?”

Daenerys’s jaw worked, but she said nothing.

They finished the rest of the walk to the Great Hall in tense silence.

Without the usual crowd of courtiers and the petitioners present, the Great Hall seemed cavernous and empty. Their footsteps echoed as they neared the steps to the Iron Throne, looming over them like an endless, threatening shadow.

“It’s so ugly,” Daenerys said, having come to a sudden halt. “I know it’s made of the swords of Aegon’s enemies, but I always imagined it differently.”

“My father said it’s very uncomfortable,” Sansa said quietly. “He cut himself on it once.”

“He had no right to sit upon it,” Daenerys said, her voice harsh.

Sansa thought it best not to respond.

Without another word, Daenerys climbed up to seat herself on the throne.

Sansa exchanged worried looks with Brienne and Ser Gerald. The Dornish guard was staying farther back, and she could not make his expression out.

Almost the moment Daenerys sat down - sinking slowly, with an air of great importance - Sansa heard them. _The bells._ Her heart began to hammer hard, and sweat was pouring down her back in cold streams. _Have the ships arrived? Are we under attack?_ She looked at Daenerys, hoping her posture would tell her what to expect, but the Mother of Dragons looked as if she was in her own little world. Unaware of any bells.

“Ser Gerald, please find out what’s happening.”

Ser Gerald did not look happy to go, but he went without a word. Brienne moved to stand near the Dornish guard, her hand on the hilt of her sword. 

It was almost as if it was just the two of them now: Daenerys and Sansa.

 _The last time a Targaryen and a Stark were in this room together, the Mad King was murdering my grandfather and uncle._ Sansa shuddered.

It was hard to know how much time went by. Sansa did not dare speak and break the spell Daenerys seemed to be under.

But eventually, Daenerys spoke.

“When I was growing up, my brother and I were told the people of Westeros were waiting for us to return. Pining for their rightful rulers.” Daenerys said, her voice shaking with anger and disappointment. “But they did not welcome me. They _fear_ me. Victarion Greyjoy told me that with his fleet and my armies, _my dragons_ , I could take the Iron Throne in a day. But that was not true, either.” Daenerys paused for a moment, and Sansa listened to the bells tolling in time with her pounding pulse, wondering whether they were ringing because of the approaching ships, or whether Drogon was currently rising from the Dragonpit, attuned to his mother’s distress. “Prince Oberyn said the men from Dorne and the Golden Company would fight on my behalf,” Daenerys continued at length. “But the Golden Company is leaving, and a _sand snake_ dares to question my plan for the future.” A small, but audible note of hysteria had crept into Daenerys’s voice. “As if all of that is not enough, I now find out that the Usurper managed to leave his spawn growing inside _you_.”

Sansa did not fight the urge to place a protective hand over her stomach. “What _is_ your plan for the future?” Sansa asked. It wasn’t easy to keep her voice calm and polite, but somehow she managed. _I must keep her distracted,_ she thought, though a part of her despaired that there was no point. If Daenerys’s armies were coming… if Drogon was getting ready to attack at last… _Gods. Help us. Help me._

“I plan to rule,” Daenerys said, her voice coming down like a hammer.

“I gathered that,” Sansa said, fighting to keep her tone even, thinking as hard and as quickly as she could. “And I’m sure you have considered how best to stop Euron Greyjoy’s men from reaving up and down the western shore, how to rebuild in the north, how to feed the smallfolk now that even the Reach has emptied its granaries, how to tax fairly and raise the funds to repair all the roads that have been damaged this winter, and how to stop the spread of the grey plague. I’m sure you already know who among your loyal followers will be suited to the different positions on the small council, and I’m certainly sure you will marry wisely and keep all the high lords happy.” Sansa stopped to draw breath, and for a few frenzied beats of her heart she listened to the ominous sound of silence. _The bells have stopped ringing._ She took a deep breath and made herself finish what she had started. “But what I don’t understand is how you intend to keep the throne if you are unable to bear children?”

Daenerys shot to her feet, and in the same instant the doors to the Great Hall burst open.

Sansa whipped her head around to look, expecting Prince Oberyn and his daughters and a host of Dornish knights and Unsullied soldiers, and almost falling to the floor when she saw a dark-haired, long-faced man come striding in with Ser Gerald chasing after him instead.

 _Father?_ she thought for a wild moment, her heart hammering. But then he drew nearer, and Sansa realised who he was.

“Jon?”

Jon did not answer her. His eyes were focused on Daenerys, and he was walking towards her looking determined. Determined and furious.

It was strange to see him after all this time, looking so different from the boy he had been when he’d left Winterfell all those years ago. He was a man grown, now. Battle scarred and bearded, broad-shouldered and strong.

 _And so like Father,_ she thought, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Dany, what are you doing?” he asked, glaring up at Daenerys. She was glaring just as fiercely down at him as she walked imperiously down the steps. “You left before we had a chance to honour the fallen. You didn’t even say good-bye.” His voice sounded harsh, and much deeper than Sansa remembered it.

“I am claiming what’s rightfully mine.”

“You abandoned your khalasar!” Jon shouted. “The Unsullied! Everyone!”

“They will join me here.”

“You abandoned _me_ ,” Jon whispered, the emotion in his storm-grey eyes so deep that Sansa almost took a step back. “I finally told you who I am, and you just… leave?”

Daenerys paused on her way down, but said nothing.

“Why would you do this?” Jon said brokenly, running a hand through his tangled hair as he walked up the bottom steps to meet her. “I thought - I thought we were coming to know one another.” He swallowed. “I thought we had a _truce_.”

Daenerys stared at him, her eyes cold. “The truce ended when the Night King died. The Usurper is gone. The Iron Throne is mine.”

“Why should it be yours?” Jon asked sharply. “Following your own reasoning, I have more of a right to it than you do, and you don’t see me running off - _in the middle of the night_ \- without telling my only living family member that I’m leaving!”

Sansa blinked, looking between Jon and Daenerys and feeling deeply confused.

“You? You have more of a right than I?” Those amethyst eyes were shooting sparks, though her voice was steady. “No. I don’t think you do. You have not suffered as I have. You did not sacrifice _everything_ as I did.” Daenerys spoke coldly, walking slowly down the steps. “I have been exiled. I have been hunted, sold like a broodmare, cursed, chained, and betrayed. I have fought a legion of white walkers and their wights. But I never gave up. Because I know my destiny, Jon _Snow_. I know my purpose. I was born to break chains, to lead, to _rule._ I was born to sit on the Iron Throne...” Daenerys was almost nose to nose with Jon now. “... And I will.”

The words hung in the air for several beats before the silence was broken.

“If suffering is what gives you the right to rule, I think we could pluck any slave off the streets of any city in the world and put _them_ on the throne,” Jon argued, not backing away from Daenerys even though she was standing so close. “Isn’t that what you told me at the Wall?” His expression turned softer now. “That their suffering is unimaginable? That nothing we could go through compares to the horrors the people you freed have described to you?”

The cold look on Daenerys’s face faltered. But then her expression hardened again. “That is why I should lead. I am the Breaker of Chains. I will never tolerate slavery where I am queen.”

“Neither would I,” Jon said, “and neither would Shireen Baratheon, if she’s anything like her father. You know slavery is unlawful in Westeros.”

“You made your vows to the Night’s Watch,” Daenerys said forcefully, “I don’t - I don’t care who you are. You have forfeited your right to any inheritance. And Shireen Baratheon is the daughter of a usurper. She has no claim.” Daenerys glared at Sansa. “Whatever abomination you’re carrying has no claim, either. The Iron Throne is _mine._ ”

Jon looked ready to argue some more, but Sansa had had enough. There was clearly something going on between Daenerys and Jon that she did not understand, and it seemed to have something to do with Jon’s parentage, but Sansa would have to ask Jon about it later. “Please,” she said, her voice ringing surprisingly loudly in the cavernous hall. “Even if we forget the future, how do you _presently_ intend to rule the people you so recently near starved, if I may ask? You said yourself that they fear you. What do you plan to do when they riot? Or flee?” _Will you burn them all and rule over the ashes?_

“They will see,” Daenerys said, her pale face flushing, “I am the rightful queen. They will want their rightful queen. I will make them see.” 

Sansa doubted it. In her experience - limited though it was - the people of King’s Landing mostly wanted to be rid of plagues, war, and winter, and to have full bellies.

“I was the one who saved you all from the white walkers. My dragons. My armies,” Daenerys went on, her voice rising in pitch.

“We are grateful for that,” Jon interjected, cutting Daenerys off. “But your armies alone did not defeat the Night King. We all helped. My father -” Daenerys interrupted with a loud snort. “ _My father_ ,” Jon repeated more loudly, glaring at Danerys, “had been fighting them for _years._ The men of the Night’s Watch, the men of the north, and the men Stannis Baratheon sent from the south, sacrificed their lives-”

“Perhaps if they hadn’t sacrificed quite so many, we would have had fewer wights to fight off,” Danerys said waspishly.

“Perhaps if you had listened to Stannis and my father, Viserion wouldn’t have been killed, and the Wall might have held,” Jon shot back, glaring.

Daenerys looked ready to throttle Jon, but Sansa would never find out whether she actually would have. The royal steward was at the Great Hall’s doors, still open after Jon’s shocking entrance, and he had cleared his throat. Loudly.

“Yes?” Sansa said, when all Daenerys and Jon did was stare at him.

“There is a Varrapho Irren here to see Queen Sansa. A merchant from Tyrosh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some of Daenerys's dialogue from the show in this chapter - as I'm sure you noticed - though I adapted it to fit the story. But some credit should go to ~~usurper~~ David Benioff and ~~usurper~~ D. B. Weiss.
> 
> Here is the full speech from the episode called "The Queen's Justice" season 7, episode 3:
> 
> "I was born at Dragonstone, not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course. I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea — any sea — and they did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will."
> 
> Thank you so much for the amazing comments and all the kudos! I know a lot of people say that this year has taken years to pass, but for me - because of this story - the weeks have flown by! I hope those of you who celebrate have been having a lovely Christmas, and that those of you who don't have been having a lovely time, too. See you in January! ♥


	33. The Wolf Blood

Sansa looked at Jon and Daenerys where they stood, nose to nose, on the steps to the throne, and then back at the royal steward by the great doors. Brienne, Ser Gerald, and the increasingly uncomfortable-looking Dornish guard were all standing near the doors too, staring at the steward, their stances tense.

“Can it wait?” Sansa asked, hoping she did not sound as overwhelmed as she felt. She was hardly in a position to speak to a merchant from Tyrosh at the moment.

The royal steward opened his mouth to reply, but before he managed to say anything, the oddest man Sansa had ever seen pushed past him, a young girl on his heels, and two burly guards marching after her. The man - Varrapho Irren she presumed - was slender and of average height, and had a beard that had been dyed bright green. His clothes were equally colourful, and flamboyantly cut. He wore a hat that Sansa thought very peculiar, and a smile that reminded her of nothing so much as a sly fox.

He bowed ostentatiously and said something in his Tyroshi tongue. It sounded like High Valyrian, but Sansa understood none of it. The young girl translated. 

“I, the exalted Varrapho Irren, have come to trade with Queen Sansa Baratheon, as per her request. I have brought three ships full of grain and livestock, salted meat, fruit, and spices.”

Sansa stood frozen for a moment, thinking. _The ships Grand Maester Gormon spoke of were merchant vessels, not warships?_ But then, why had the bells been ringing? A glance at Daenerys’s thunderous expression prompted Sansa to shake the thoughts away and speak. 

“You are most welcome, Varrapho Irren. Thank you for sailing all this way,” she said, inclining her head. “I would be grateful if you could wait outside for just a moment. I will join you when I have finished here, and we can adjourn to a more comfortable chamber to conduct our business.”

The girl translated Sansa’s words. Varrapho listened, looking displeased, and then answered through his translator: “I would prefer to finish our business immediately. I saw a dragon fly over this city, and I am not interested in lingering.” The translating girl looked frightened, and stumbled over the word ‘dragon’.

 _A dragon? Has Drogon left the Dragonpit? Were the bells tolling for him, not the ships?_

Jon shifted, and Sansa looked at him, suddenly recalling that he was supposedly a dragonrider too. _Are there perhaps two dragons in King’s Landing?_

Varrapho started speaking again. He named an exorbitant price for his cargo, his eyes glinting with greed as his young companion translated.

“Pardon me ser, but that is an absurd amount,” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at Varrapho. “I’m sure the master of coin stated clearly what the Crown would be willing to pay when he wrote to you.”

Varrapho smirked. “I will consider lowering the price,” the girl translated as he spoke, “if you will throw in some prisoners for me to take back to Tyrosh. Surely you have people here that you have no need of?”

Sansa’s mouth almost dropped open at his audacity. She gave Varrapho the coldest look she could muster. “We do not deal in slaves in Westeros, ser.”

Varrapho’s expression soured, but before he could answer Sansa, his attention was drawn to Daenerys. She was speaking to him in a tongue that sounded very close to Varrapho’s own to Sansa’s untrained ears, and her tone was unmistakably threatening.

Sansa looked hopefully at the translating girl, but the girl was transfixed by Daenerys, and did not notice.

Varrapho took a step back, his face paling. Whatever Daenerys had said must not have been very pleasant. But then it was as if his resolve returned to him; his lips tightened, and his eyes shot sparks when next he spoke, looking from Daenerys to Sansa, and slapping the slave girl’s cheek when she did not immediately translate. With a soft cry, the girl hurriedly spoke.

“Who are you to threaten me, when I am here to speak to the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? What do I care what you did in Astapor and Meereen, Mother of Dragons? What do I care if you are the so-called Breaker of Chains? What you have broken has been reforged, stronger than ever. Indeed, the slave markets in Meereen have never been busier, the masters never more powerful.”

Daenerys hissed out a short, angry retort.

“I do not lie. You must know what happened in Astapor after you left there? Meereen has been much the same, but I’m told even more blood was spilled.” The slave girl’s eyes became very big and very sad as she spoke, her tone conveying none of the cruel glee that was apparent on Varrapho’s face. “The slaves all know you have abandoned them for this… pitiful throne of iron, in this pitiful land that cannot feed itself through one pitiful winter.”

Daenerys’s hands became fists and her eyes narrowed, but she lifted her chin as she spoke in a slightly calmer, but much more deadly tone.

Whatever she said caused Varrapho to bare his teeth in anger and glance at his guards in a way that Sansa did not like one bit. She decided to speak up before Varrapho had a chance to do anything foolish. 

“Please, can we not remain calm? The Crown is perfectly willing to pay a fair price for your cargo, ser. But slavery is not tolerated here.”

The girl began to translate again. But though Varrapho spoke angrily, gesturing sharply in response to what Sansa had said, the girl’s tone was quiet and without rancour. “I will not remain calm in the face of these insults. Be assured, the merchants of Tyrosh will not trade with you again. The next time you are starving, do not expect us to save you. Not if we are to be treated in this way.”

Sansa got the sense that the girl was politely choosing not to translate a lot of rude language.

Daenerys spoke in the common tongue next, walking right up to Varrapho. “You have no right to speak of ill treatment. Not when you enslave people to do your bidding.”

A touch breathlessly, the girl translated these words into the Tyroshi tongue for her master.

Varrapho considered Daenerys. He was clearly attempting to look haughty and amused, though beads of sweat glittered tellingly at his brow. He spat out a few words that the girl did not translate, but Sansa could guess at their meaning. Something along the lines of: ‘stay out of this’, but probably ruder.

“Leave. Now.” Daenerys said, speaking again in the common tongue, her eyes burning.

Varrapho said something derisive that Sansa assumed meant ‘no’.

Daenerys’s nostrils flared. “I will be heard!” she said in a voice made ice cold with fury. “You will regret this day, Varrapho Irren, for I, Daenerys Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains, will follow you to Tyrosh, and free every single slave in the city. They will be free to lead their own lives, free to reap all the benefits of their own hard work, and free to treat you and the other masters the way you deserve to be treated.” She paused, and the silence swelled in the vast hall. “You have been warned.”

Sansa looked at Jon, eyes wide. _Is she serious?_

Jon gave a small shrug, frowning. He had been staying very still, and very silent all through the conversation, and seemed reluctant to bring any attention to himself.

Varrapho looked ready to storm out with his guards and his slave girl, but Daenerys reached out and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She said something, and even though Sansa did not understand the words, she understood the meaning. Daenerys was not letting Varrapho take the girl with him.

For a moment, Sansa was sure Varrapho would order his guards to attack Daenerys. He was swelling up like a great toad, sweat streaming down his face, glaring at Daenerys, the girl, and his guards. 

Brienne, who had been keeping as quiet and still as Jon up until now, drew her sword and stepped forward, putting herself between the guards and the little girl. “Try it,” she said, widening the gap between her feet and dropping into a fighting stance. She was larger than Varrapho’s guards, and though there were two of them, they did not seem to like the look of her gleaming sword. They were both scowling, and glancing warily from Brienne to Ser Gerald and the Dornish guard behind her.

A vein throbbing across the middle of his forehead, Varrapho screamed something at his guards that caused them to clench their jaws and attack Brienne at once.

They charged.

Sansa gasped and moved closer to Jon, her heart pounding so hard that she thought it would leave her chest.

As Brienne began to cross blades with her attackers, steel clashing against steel, the Dornish guard made to draw his sword too, but Ser Gerald held him back with a satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting.

Watching Brienne fight with live steel was unlike anything Sansa had seen on the training field. She was like a force of nature: a tidal wave or a snowstorm, using her size and her strength to her advantage, and yet dodging blows with a lithe speed that seemed impossible. 

When her sword found a weak spot in the first guard’s armour, sliding in like a warm knife through soft butter, the slave girl gave a frightened cry and turned to hide her face against Daenerys’s breast. Daenerys embraced her protectively, though her face remained impassive as she watched the carnage before her. Sansa did not think her own expression was as unmoved as more and more blood spilled, filling her nostrils with a sharp, metallic smell.

_Gods, please. Let it end quickly._

Whether it was due to Brienne’s skill, or whether the gods had heard Sansa’s prayer, the fight was over in less than a minute. Both Varrapho’s guards were mortally wounded and crumpled to the floor, unconscious. _Dead._ Brienne stood over them with her sword drawn, and gave Varrapho a cold look.

Red as a weirwood’s leaf, face shining with sweat, Varrapho let out a litany of what Sansa presumed to be swear words, but he turned around and stalked out of the Great Hall without further attempts to retrieve his slave.

Sansa’s heart slowed down for the first time in what felt like hours, and she inclined her head at Brienne, meeting her eyes. She took no pleasure in bloodshed, but Brienne had protected them all skillfully, and for that she was thankful.

In the heavy silence that fell, Daenerys spoke to the slave girl in a soft voice. The girl was looking up at her with reverence and awe; as if Daenerys were the Mother made flesh. But it was the look on Daenerys’s face that really caught Sansa’s attention. Where her muscles had been taut with anger and bitterness, where her cheeks had been flushed an angry red, there was now smooth, unblemished calm. The eyes that had been flashing with the storm after which Daenerys was named were now warm and comforting as she spoke to the slave girl, and her body was no longer vibrating rigidly with tension. Instead she seemed still and certain. Almost serene.

“Dany?” Jon said, his voice careful.

She looked up at him with a smile. “Yes?”

“Did you mean it? Do you intend to go to Tyrosh?” He swallowed, glancing at Sansa and then back at Daenerys.

Daenerys’s smile faded, and she looked past him at the Iron Throne, looming over them all. She stared at it before looking down at the little girl’s face: still turned towards her like a flower to the sun. “I do,” Daenerys said, a steely resolve manifesting in her eyes as Sansa watched.

“But… what will you do when you’ve freed the slaves? Go back to Meereen?” Jon was frowning and searching Daenerys’s face, concern in his eyes. “Come back here?”

Waving a hand dismissively, Daenerys shook her head. “First I will go and make sure that craven rat, Varrapho, unloads his cargo safely.” She looked from Jon to Sansa and raised a brow. “I promised I would burn his ships if he did not.”

 _Gods._ Sansa’s stomach turned at the idea of such a threat, but she clasped her hands in front of her and did her best to keep her face still.

Daenerys began to walk towards the doors, but paused and glanced at Jon. “Jon?” she said. “Join me?”

“I need to discuss a few things with Sansa,” Jon said.

A small, disappointed frown tugged at Daenerys’s lips, but she said nothing. She strode from the Great Hall, her head held high. The Dornish guard hurried after her, looking vaguely terrified.

Sansa thought she knew why. _His prince will not be pleased by this turn of events._

Sansa looked at Jon, and then at the translating girl. She was looking back at Sansa with wide eyes, hugging herself around the middle; wilting, now that the sun had gone.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “We were not properly introduced. I’m Sansa Baratheon.”

“Jatala,” the girl said, looking skittishly between Sansa, Brienne, and Brienne’s bloody sword.

“That’s pretty,” Jon said, giving a crooked, awkward smile and glancing quickly, almost shyly, at Sansa.

Sansa smiled too, her heart leaping. _He remembered._ It had been years since she’d told him that whenever a lady told him her name, the courteous thing to do was to compliment it. It seemed so long ago that it almost hurt to think of it. But it was a sweet ache. 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Jatala,” Sansa said, turning her attention to the girl. Jatala gave her a nervous smile. _She must be so frightened._ “This is Brienne. She will not harm you, I promise. She only fought the guards to protect us all.” Sansa glanced back at Brienne. “She is going to take you somewhere safe where you can rest and refresh yourself. I promise, no harm will come to you.”

Brienne nodded solemnly.

“Thank you,” Jatala said, though she still looked nervous as Brienne led her away.

“Ser Gerald, could you find Lord Florent and make certain Varrapho is paid fairly for his cargo?” Sansa asked once Brienne and Jatala were gone. “Please? I will be safe with Jon.”

Ser Gerald opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when Sansa gave him a pleading look. Ser Gerald sighed. “Fine. And I’ll ask someone to come and clean this mess up, shall I?” He glanced at the Tyroshi guards on the floor, looking highly disgruntled.

Once he was gone, Sansa took a deep breath and turned to face Jon head on.

They stared at each other for a moment, and Sansa was hit again by his resemblance to their father. Heat built up behind her eyes, and every question she had wanted to ask him disappeared.

“Jon,” she said, her breath hitching, all of her armour falling away.

He had been looking at her intently - almost as if he were seeing her for the first time - but at the sound of his name he closed the distance between them, enveloping her with strong arms.

Sansa trembled as she buried her face in the thick fur about his shoulders, inhaling the smell of snow and brimstone, sweat and smoke. Their embrace was long and tight and comforting, and Sansa had not felt as fully _understood_ in her grief since she’d last held Shireen.

But eventually they broke apart.

“You look different,” Jon said gruffly, fidgeting with his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them now that he was no longer holding her. “Like Lady Stark, but… not quite.”

“Thank you,” she said, exhaling slowly. “And you look like Father’s ghost.” She searched his face. “Mother’s letter said… is it really true? He’s dead?”

Fresh pain and grief shone in Jon’s eyes as he nodded. “Yes.”

It should not have been so hard to hear a third time, but the pain in her chest was just as sharp as when Daenerys had first delivered the blow. She drew in a long, shuddered breath. “Jon… what happened?”

Jon took a step back and sighed. “It’s a long story.”

She gave him a firm, expectant look in return.

Another sigh, and he sank down to sit on the steps to the throne, every muscle sagging. “What do you already know? Daenerys must have told you something. And you received Lady Stark’s raven, yes?”

Gathering her skirts and sitting down next to him, Sansa gave him an overview of the information she already had, speaking quickly and succinctly. Jon watched her intently as she spoke, nodding every now and then. “So? Is it all true?” Sansa asked in the end, watching him with bated breath.

“It is.”

She was silent for a moment. One of Varrapho’s guards twitched, and Sansa looked away, her stomach turning at the sight of the slowly expanding pool of blood around the pair of them, drenching the carpet that stretched from the throne to the doors. _There is nothing to be done for them,_ she thought sadly. “You really flew on the back of a dragon during the battle?” she asked, turning to focus on Jon once more.

“I did. And I flew here on Rhaegal’s back,” Jon offered, as if he’d read the question in her eyes.

Sansa was quiet for a moment as she tried, not for the first time, to wrap her mind around the idea of _Jon_ \- her half-brother Jon who was always competing with Robb, teasing Theon, making sure Arya didn’t get into too much trouble, and always so patient with Bran - _Jon_ on the back of a dragon. “Did Daenerys make the dragon obey you?” she asked, curious to know whether Grand Maester Gormon’s theory was correct. 

(“Without a drop of Targaryen blood there must be some trick involved,” the grand maester had mused some days ago, after Davos had wondered aloud why Jon had been able to bond with a dragon when someone like Quentyn Martell had failed. “Perhaps the Targaryen girl was able to command the beast to accept Jon Snow, somehow?”)

“What?” Jon furrowed his brow. “No.” He shook his head as if to get rid of a pesky fly, and then turned an imploring gaze on her. “Sansa, you must believe me. I would have come days ago, but I couldn’t leave before Father’s funeral. Or before - before I knew Robb was safe.”

A pure, sweet relief flooded Sansa. _Robb is safe._ But straight on its heels came a pang of disappointment at the news that she’d missed Father’s funeral. She swallowed her emotions with difficulty and tried to concentrate. “But what happened to the white walkers after Arya killed the Night King? And is my husband really dead? Mother’s letter said you couldn’t find a body -” Her voice caught and she had to stop talking.

“The white walkers are gone,” Jon said firmly. “When Arya defeated the Night King, every white walker and wight he controlled just… collapsed. One moment we were losing, overwhelmed by their numbers… and then it was all over.” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

She swallowed, her entire body trembling. “And Stannis?”

Jon stared at her for a long moment. “You really care about him, don’t you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Of course I do,” Sansa said, blinking fast. “He’s my husband. I’m - I’m carrying his child.”

Inhaling loudly, Jon continued to stare, blinking. “You’re - really?”

Sansa nodded, unable to keep a tear from escaping. She wiped it away with an impatient swipe of her hand. “Please tell me what you know.”

Jon looked from her face to her stomach, and then down at his own hands, his face stricken. “I - I don’t know how to say this.”

Every muscle in her body seemed to tense up. “Just tell me. _Please._ ”

“King Stannis… he went down into the crypt during the battle. He, Ser Barristan Selmy, a few more knights of the Kingsguard, and some of Winterfell’s own men.” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “We knew we should have listened to him. We knew we should have moved the bodies in the crypt someplace else. But there was no time, and we needed every man digging the trenches, and it just… didn’t seem as important. We were going to keep the door securely barred, and we thought it would be enough.”

Her stomach squeezed in on itself. “But it wasn’t?”

Jon shook his head. “I wasn’t there, but I’m told that as soon as Stannis heard the wights the walkers raised in the crypt were breaking through he left his post to go fight them. He hasn’t been seen since, but there were… several burnt corpses down there. Faces charred black. We think some of them may have been wearing white cloaks, but it’s… hard to say. The only body we were able to identify for certain was Hodor’s.”

Sansa’s vision failed her for a moment as her imagination provided her with terrifying images of sweet, simple Hodor trying to protect his home, of Stannis and Ser Barristan and the other knights of the Kingsguard fighting the wights off with flaming torches only to be consumed by the fire themselves. Sacrificing themselves to keep the women and children of Winterfell safe.

When she could see again, Jon’s arms were around her once more.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, stroking her back and her hair. “There was nothing I could do.”

“But Robb is safe? He recovered from his wounds?” Sansa whispered, clinging to the good news, somehow managing to talk despite the knives that seemed to be piercing her heart and her lungs. _If I just ignore it, if I just… think about other things…_ She sucked in a painful, gasping breath, and Jon held her tighter.

“Yes,” Jon said, but there was something in the tone of his voice that made the knives dig in deeper.

“But?”

“But it looked really bad for a while.” Jon looked at Sansa, sorrow in his eyes. “He’s - he’s lost an arm. But he’d be dead if it weren’t for Grey Wind.”

 _An arm? Oh, gods…_ She squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a moment and tried to breathe evenly. “Did Grey Wind make it?” Sansa remembered Daenerys saying that one of the wolves had died.

Jon shook his head again, his eyes still sad.

Sansa closed her eyes again, unable to move or think for several long moments. But eventually more questions floated up from the darkness.

“How is Arya?”

Jon loosened his hold, moving his head so they could see one another better. “She’s grieving for Father - we all are - but she’s unhurt.” Jon’s eyes brightened. “And she was brilliant, Sansa. I was there. I saw it all. I attacked the Night King after - after Father... and he was fighting me and didn’t see her coming.”

Sansa swallowed and nodded. She was truly glad to hear that Arya was well, and that she’d been able to end the war, as incredible as that still seemed. But it was a strange, far-off gladness that did not fill her as it should. A light flickering in a thick fog.

“They’re all well, Sansa,” Jon said gently. “Arya, your mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon. And they miss you.”

Another tear rolled down her cheek, wet and warm, but this time she let it fall without brushing it away.

“Lady Stark asked me to tell you that she’ll come to visit you as soon as she can,” Jon went on with a short laugh. “I offered to give her a lift, but she didn’t go for it.”

Sansa made a sound that was a cross between a sniff and a startled giggle. She would have given anything to see her mother, but the idea of her riding a dragon with _Jon_ was too much for her imagination to cope with.

“She’ll be even more determined to come to you when she finds out you’re pregnant,” Jon said, his eyes going to her stomach, staring as if he still couldn’t believe it.

Though she could not imagine Mother on a dragon with Jon, it was wonderfully easy to imagine her mother, _here,_ with her, in King’s Landing. _Maybe, with her here, I could rest a little?_ Sansa knew she would still have her duties, but it would all be so much easier with Mother’s advice and help. No problem would seem too great or difficult, she was certain. _And maybe she would brush my hair like she always used to…_

For a while they sat in silence, Sansa resting her head against Jon’s shoulder, his arms around her.

Sansa wished she could just sit in the quiet of his arms forever, her mind empty and still. _But I am not just a sister, reunited with a brother,_ she reminded herself. _I am a queen._ And there was so much she did not yet understand.

“What happened between you and Daenerys, Jon?” she asked, her voice hoarse and foreign to her ears. The way he had spoken to Daenerys, and she to him… the emotion behind their words… it had almost seemed like an argument of lovers. But Jon had said something about being a family member, hadn’t he? _None of it makes any sense._

Jon dropped his arms, his cheeks flushing. “It’s complicated.”

Sansa straightened her back and stared at him. “Were you in love?”

“No!” Jon said quickly. Too quickly. He looked away. “That’s not… I could never. I tried to be a friend to her, but I think maybe she might have misunderstood my intentions -” He stopped talking and blew out a frustrated breath, his cheeks a very deep shade of red. “She’s my aunt, Sansa.”

Sansa blinked at him. “What?” _How?_

“When Father first came to the Wall he told me something. About my mother. I didn’t want to believe it for the longest time, but… it’s true. I’d never have been able to ride Rhaegal if it weren’t true. Daenerys couldn’t have commanded him to accept me. Not even if she had wanted to.”

Her chest stopped moving; air caught in still lungs, a terrible suspicion tugging at her from a dark corner of her mind. “Jon? What did Father tell you?”

“He told me that I’m - I’m not your brother.” He stared gravely into her eyes. “I’m not his son.”

A startled, high-pitched laugh escaped her. “Jon,” Sansa shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. You look just like Father.”

Jon shot her a soft, sad smile. “I’m your cousin, Sansa. I’m Lyanna’s son.”

The hysterical denials fell limp from her lips in the face of his certain, grey gaze. The truth was there, staring at her, lighting up the dark corners of her mind.

 _Lyanna? But then who… ?_ She ran through the possibilities, her heart pounding, and suddenly Father’s voice was echoing in her memory.

_”... a young girl was pressed to make a very impetuous decision that she was not ready to make, by someone much more powerful than her. Someone she should not have trusted.”_

Her eyes widened. “You’re Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” she whispered, and the still-fresh memories of Jon’s conversation with Daenerys ran through her mind. The pieces of the puzzle were all coming together. _Mother, Maiden, Crone. She really is his aunt._

“Yes,” Jon whispered back hoarsely. He was looking warily at her, watching her as if he expected her to bite him at any moment. “But Rhaegar never abducted Lyanna. She went with him of her own free will. I think - I think they must have been in love, though I don’t know everything that happened between them.” He shook his head, blowing out a loud breath. “Father - Lord Stark - found me in the Tower of Joy. My mother had just given birth, and she was dying. She made him promise to keep me safe.” Jon swallowed, still watching her closely. “Father swore it was the truth, and when Howland Reed came to the Wall to fight the Others, he swore too. He was there that day. He witnessed it.”

Sansa nodded and squeezed Jon’s hand reassuringly, understanding that Jon was desperate to be believed. “But… why did Father lie? Why did he say you were his bastard?” It was almost too much to take in all at once, and Sansa’s temples were pounding with a horrible, throbbing ache.

“He said he was afraid of what King Robert might have done if he’d found out I was half Targaryen,” Jon said, his lips twisting bitterly. “He said he - he did it to protect me.”

“Surely King Robert wouldn’t have hurt a baby?” Sansa said, appalled by the notion. But then, with a sinking feeling, she remembered the murders Prince Oberyn had been raging about since he’d arrived. _Elia. Rhaenys. Aegon._ King Robert had not murdered them by his own hand, but Oberyn was right; Robert had not lifted a finger to bring the murderers to justice, either. She brought a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in horror.

Jon shrugged, but there was something broken in his eyes that twisted Sansa’s insides further. “Father wouldn’t risk it. He did not even wish to risk King Stannis finding out about me, for fear of what he might do.”

“Stannis wouldn’t have harmed you,” Sansa said at once, dropping her hand. _Would he?_ She shook the doubt away, reminding herself that Stannis had most likely sacrificed himself to save her family. _No. Not ‘most likely’. **Definitely.** He’s gone. Dead._ Angry and upset, breathing too hard, Sansa tried to keep from crying. She knew her fool’s hope was gone, but her heart could not seem to accept it. A sob caught in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I suppose we’ll never know what they might have done,” Jon said, his voice tired.

Sansa said nothing for a long time, struggling to keep her emotions in line. “Does Mother know?” she asked at length, when she was finally a little more composed.

“No,” Jon said, his eyes clouding over. “But I will tell her. I promise. Lady Stark deserves to know that her husband was never unfaithful to her.”

Sansa’s heart squeezed as she realised her father had died before her mother had been given a chance to know the truth. _It isn’t fair._ Then, as she stared at Jon with dawning horror, she thought of how he had been raised and treated as a bastard. She recalled sadly, guiltily, the cold way her mother had always treated him. Treatment Sansa had sometimes emulated herself. He hadn’t deserved it. Not a bit of it.

_Gods… none of this is fair._

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” he murmured. “None of you knew.”

“But it’s… it’s so unfair.” She blinked rapidly, and tried to breathe through her nose.

“It is what it is.” The tired tone in his voice spoke of many long nights spent reconciling himself with the matter.

“You might have been a prince,” she whispered, her mind reeling with the implications.

“Better a living bastard than a dead prince.”

Stricken, Sansa shook her head, her thoughts still racing. With great difficulty and several deep breaths, she pushed through the confusion.

“Jon, are you - are you _certain_ you don’t intend to lay claim to the Iron Throne?”

He met her eyes gravely. “I am the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That is enough.”

She stared into those grey depths, willing them to reveal the truth. “You’d really do that rather than be king?” _Would you ever have joined the Night’s Watch if you’d known the truth?_

Jon grinned and ducked his head. “King Stannis didn’t make being king sound all that fun, to be honest.”

A surprised laugh burst out of her as she pictured Stannis’s long-suffering expressions during small council meetings, and she covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. She closed her eyes, Stannis’s face so clear in her mind, and her shoulders kept shaking and shaking. And then came the full force of the emotions she had so recently struggled to suppress; a torrent of tears that broke through every last one of her barriers in a flood that felt like it would never again be contained.

_He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He can’t..._

Jon pulled her into his arms again and held her until she’d cried herself out, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

“Jon…” she said after a long time, her nose too stuffed up for her to breathe properly. “Do you really think Daenerys will leave?”

“Probably,” Jon said, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

“But do you think she’ll come back for the throne? When she’s finished with Tyrosh?”

Jon shook his head, still frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But I don’t think she’ll ever get what she needs in Westeros.”

Sansa blinked at him with swollen eyes. “What does she need?”

Jon gave a sad smile. “I think… she needs to feel needed.” He shook his head. “But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she just needs what we all need: love, family.” He sighed. “She’s had a hard life, Sansa. Her brother was… cruel to her as they grew up. She lost her first husband, her first baby… She’s tried to help people, but it hasn’t been an easy road. I honestly don’t know whether her dragons have helped her or made everything harder for her. I don’t - I don’t think she sees everything she’s done very clearly.”

“Are you going to help her?” Sansa asked, her hand on her stomach, thinking with a strong surge of sympathy how horrible it would be to lose a baby. Closing her eyes, she sent every god she could think of a desperate prayer. _Let me keep mine. Please. Please. It’s all I have left of him._

“I can’t be what she wants me to be,” Jon said, his voice distant. “I don’t have what she needs any more than Westeros does.”

Sansa’s bruised heart constricted with pity as she realised what Jon was saying. “You’re not going to go with her?”

“I already told you what I’m going to do. I swore an oath to the Night’s Watch, Sansa. An _oath._ ”

“But you’re her only family…”

They looked at each other. Jon’s eyes were just like Father’s, and his careworn expression was so like Father’s, too. She tried to see traces of the Targaryen side of his family in him, searching every line of his long, brooding face, but she found nothing but Jon. 

_The wolf blood,_ said Father’s voice in her memory.

Jon’s lips thinned. “I don’t know if I can be her family.” He looked up at the Iron Throne, though he did not really seem to see it. “I don’t know if I _want_ to.” He gave a grim smile. “‘Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.’"

Sansa was struck by the strange notion that she’d heard Jon speak of this before, but she was sure she hadn’t. “Do you believe that?” she asked, reaching out to touch the back of Jon’s hand.

He turned his palm up to grasp hers in return, his eyes seeking hers with something desperate at their edges. “I don’t want to think I’m the toss of a coin from madness,” he said, his voice attempting gruffness, but betraying his fear when it wavered.

“You’re half a Stark,” Sansa reminded him, squeezing his hand. “I haven’t heard of any coins being tossed for us. We’re a pack, and we look out for one another.”

Jon raised his brows, a small, slow smile touching his lips. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow…”

“... the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Sansa finished with a nod, taking refuge in Father’s familiar phrase.

“My pack,” Jon said, shifting closer to her. “That’s not Daenerys. That’s you, Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.”

“Me?” Her heart missed a beat, and something like guilt writhed in her stomach. _We’ve barely seen each other since we were practically children._ And she had never been as close with Jon as Robb had. Or Arya.

“Yes you,” Jon said, his voice teasing. “Or was it not you I spent my childhood playing monsters-and-maidens with? Was it not you who taught me how to talk to pretty girls without embarrassing myself?”

The knots in her belly seemed to loosen, and she breathed a little easier as she returned Jon’s smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, Jon.”

“Me too.”

This time, her gladness was not so strange and far-off, and she wrapped herself in it, grateful for its warmth.


	34. The Rightful Ruler

The hours that followed Sansa’s conversation with Jon in the Great Hall were a whirlwind of confusion.

Outside the Red Keep’s walls the city was in uproar. Jon’s arrival on Rhaegal’s back, followed by Daenerys taking flight on Drogon to hover over the docks and threaten Varrapho’s crew into unloading their cargo, had terrified the anxious citizens of King’s Landing into a frenzy. A full-blown riot was in the making, though the City Watch had been sent to suppress it.

Inside the walls, Prince Oberyn was storming around in a rage, demanding information, a small council meeting, an audience with Daenerys, and a number of other things, his tone threatening violence if he did not get his way, though he knew better than to make the threats explicit.

Sansa was trying to keep track of everything that was going on, while also taking the time to speak to Davos, and see Shireen, Jeyne and the other ladies to make certain they were all alerted to the situation. Jon stayed with Davos while Sansa spoke to the ladies, which made Jeyne exclaim unhappily.

“I should have liked to see him! Did he say anything about Devan?”

Guilt flared in Sansa’s breast as she shook her head, realising she had not thought to ask. “No, but I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us once everything settles down.”

“But Father?” Shireen asked, her face pale but her spine steel-straight.

Sansa could not speak of it. She shook her head instead, meeting Shireen’s eyes sadly.

Alynna and Marissa, watching the exchange carefully, were wise enough to embrace Shireen, keeping her upright as she staggered.

“I cannot linger,” Sansa said, her insides tearing up at the idea of leaving Shireen in this state. “Prince Oberyn is furious, and I must rejoin Davos and Jon before Daenerys returns. We must decide what is to be done.”

“But will you ask Jon about Devan?” Jeyne said at once, both hands cradling her protruding stomach protectively, her eyes searching and desperate. “Please?”

Guilt flaring again, Sansa nodded.

Moments later, Davos and Jon showed up to fetch her however, their faces grave as they bowed respectfully to the ladies. 

“I am assembling the small council,” Davos announced. “I would ask you to join us, Your Grace,” he added, looking at Sansa.

Jeyne leapt up the moment she saw Jon, her whole body shaking with the repressed urge to speak.

“Prince Oberyn is threatening all manner of things if his questions aren’t answered,” Davos went on, shaking his head. “I think it would be best if you, the Lord Commander, and the girl that came with the merchant were all present at the meeting. The council needs to know every detail of what happened.”

“What of Daenerys?” Sansa asked.

“I’m told the cargo from the merchant’s ships has nearly all been unloaded. It is my hope that she will return soon. She will be asked to join us in the council chamber.”

“Lord Snow,” Jeyne burst out. “Do you know if Devan Seaworth is alive? And my father?”

Jon looked confused for a moment, but then recognition dawned in his eyes. “Jeyne Poole?” he said, taking a step closer to Jeyne and peering at her.

She nodded impatiently. “Lady Jeyne Seaworth, now. Please, my lord,” she said, her cheeks colouring. Whether she blushed with shame at breaking the rules of propriety to interrogate Jon while the Hand of the King had been speaking to Sansa, or whether she felt awkward about having to address Jon as a lord, or whether it was something else entirely that was making her redden, Sansa didn’t know.

“Devan Seaworth,” Jon said, furrowing his brow in thought. “I believe I know him. If he is who I think, he fought bravely and survived with minor wounds,” he said, nodding to himself. His eyes went to the swell of Jeyne’s belly. “Is he your husband?”

Jeyne, shaking and crying with relief, nodded and started babbling words of gratitude and incoherent prayers.

“Vayon Poole is alive, too,” Jon said, looking worriedly at Jeyne’s flowing tears, and glancing at Sansa as if to request help.

His expression became almost comically awkward, however, when Jeyne flung her arms around his neck and sobbed her thanks.

Davos was looking less stoic than usual, emotion and relief clear in his eyes as he watched this scene, his hand clutching the pouch around his neck.

Sansa realised with a pang of sympathy that he must not have asked Jon about Dale, Matthos, and Maric yet. _Is he afraid of what Jon might tell him?_ She knew that he had not wanted to ask Daenerys for fear of receiving faulty intelligence.

“Jon?” she asked, swallowing. “Do you know the fate of the other Seaworths that travelled north?”

Jon looked over Jeyne’s head at Davos with comprehension in his eyes. “I believe they all came through the battle, though the one called... Matthos? …suffered a head wound and had yet to wake by the time I left.” He gave Davos a regretful look. “But I don’t know if the one who remained with the fleet survived the dragon wight’s attack. He was the king’s master of ships, I believe?”

Sansa’s heart wrenched. _Dale._ The thought of him being gone was terrible for her, and compared to Davos she had barely known him. _How must he feel?_

Sansa placed a hand on Davos’s arm, her heart going out to him as he clearly fought to retain his composure. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out a few times, his throat working as he swallowed repeatedly. “I’m well,” he said at length, patting Sansa’s hand. “Now we must go.”

Carellen stepped forward to help Jon extract himself from Jeyne, and Jeyne embraced Carellen instead, still sobbing hysterically and thanking the gods. Sansa was tearing up all over again just from watching the scene, and from witnessing Davos’s more quiet emotions.

_Gods, I cannot start weeping again._

“Your Grace,” Davos said to Shireen, his voice very hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to attend the small council meeting too?”

Shireen was still being held up by Alynna and Marissa, but she raised her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “Have you need of me?” she asked.

An emotion Sansa could not quite name stirred within her, and she found herself compelled to answer before Davos had the chance. “Your good judgment would undoubtedly be helpful, but I’m sure we can get along without you until you feel more settled.” She spoke as gently as she could, casting Davos a warning glance.

“Really?” Shireen asked, her tone hopeful, eyes darting from Sansa to Davos and back.

“Of course,” Davos said kindly.

Sansa wished she did not have to leave; she would have liked to remain with the ladies to comfort them and be comforted by their reassuring presence, but Oberyn’s dark mood, and Daenerys’s imminent return from the docks meant that there was no time to waste. 

In the council chamber no one seemed to know whether to sit or stand. And while Grand Maester Gormon gave up on standing around after the first ten minutes - taking his seat and muttering about an old man’s bones - the rest of them stood huddled in little groups, speaking in whispers when they dared to say anything aloud.

Sansa stood by Davos, answering his occasional whispered question, while Jon and Jatala stood nearby, looking unreadable and nervous respectively. Paxter and Lord Andrew were discussing something in low voices, and Lord Florent and Varys were watching them all. Lord Floren seemed impatient; Varys shrewd. Prince Oberyn paced back and forth, his face growing more agitated every time Sansa glimpsed it.

When Daenerys finally arrived, sweeping inside with her cloak flaring behind her as if she were readying to take flight, the tension in the room heightened to such an extent that Sansa’s muscles all seized up.

“Is it true?” Oberyn demanded as soon as he saw her, stopping in his tracks. “Are you abandoning the Iron Throne?”

“The Iron Throne is mine by right,” Daenerys said evenly, pulling her gloves off and giving Oberyn a haughty look. “But I am needed in Essos.” Her eyes shifted towards Jatala and softened. Jatala gave her a tentative, hopeful smile, her posture easing noticeably.

“Needed?” Oberyn repeated, glancing around at them all as if to ask them whether they had heard the same thing he had. “A ruler sits upon their throne,” Oberyn said, gesturing impatiently at the nearest chair. “A ruler does not run off to foreign lands when they’re ‘needed’. Let the people of Essos manage their own problems.”

“You dare presume to tell _me_ how best to rule?” Daenerys’s eyes flashed dangerously, and she walked to stand before Oberyn, face to face. “There has never been a queen like me.”

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Davos suggested calmly.

Slowly - and in some cases, reluctantly - they all took their seats.

Davos proceeded to ask Sansa, Jon, Daenerys, and Jatala to explain what had happened in the Great Hall for the benefit of those who had yet to hear any part of the tale.

It was a complicated undertaking, and there were several interruptions and disagreements, but in the end Sansa was sure they’d managed to get all the important points across.

“He’s _whose_ son?” Prince Oberyn said, staring at Jon, disbelief and irritation in every line of his face.

“Rhaegar Targaryen’s,” Varys said, his voice quiet, but carrying. He had been staring at Jon from the moment he’d grudgingly admitted it. 

It could not have been any clearer that Jon did not want to speak of his parents; his body went rigid when it had first come up, and his eyes still stared down at the table. Daenerys looked, if possible, even less pleased by the subject, her gaze speaking of a deep, unhealed wound.

“I thought _Aegon_ was supposed to be Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” Oberyn said, his tone dripping with venom. “But you said that wasn’t true. Is this another one of your plots, master of whisperers?”

Varys shook his head. “I knew nothing of this.” His eyes glittered, lips curling into a strange smile as he considered Jon. “A prince raised as a bastard, and a bastard raised as a prince,” he said softly, almost to himself.

_It is like something out of a song._

“And I suppose you intend to claim the Iron Throne now that Daenerys has given it up?” Oberyn spat, glaring at Jon. “House Martell will not stand for such an insult. You claim you are Lyanna Stark’s son by Prince Rhaegar? That still makes you a bastard in my eyes.”

“They were wed in secret,” Jon said quietly, still rigid, still staring at the table. “But the septon who performed the ceremony left a record of it, and that record was discovered in the Citadel.”

Sansa glanced from Jon to Daenerys, surprised by this bit of news. Daenerys did not look surprised. Instead she still looked… hurt. Though Sansa doubted anyone who was not looking very carefully could see it.

“Really?” Maester Gormon looked intrigued. “By whom?”

“Sam Tarly,” Jon muttered. “A brother of the Night’s Watch, sent there to train to become Castle Black’s new maester.” 

“Hm. Interesting.”

“Interesting?!” Oberyn said heatedly, rising up and placing both hands on the table, leaning forward. “My sister was not only insulted when Rhaegar chose Lyanna Stark as his queen of love and beauty, but set aside and dishonoured as well? And let us not forget: murdered!” He struck the table, the wood vibrating beneath Sansa’s own clasped hands.

“Please,” Sansa said, moving her hands to her lap. “Prince Oberyn, Jon has no intention of claiming the Iron Throne. His vows to the Night’s Watch forbid it.”

Oberyn looked from Sansa to Jon, raising his brows expectantly.

“That’s right,” Jon said roughly, shifting in his chair. “And I’m sorry for what happened to your sister.” There was true regret in his eyes when he finally raised them from the wooden surface of the table. “If I could have chosen to be born under different circumstances, I would have.”

This seemed to chase some of the heat from Oberyn’s gaze, and he sat slowly back down, expression thoughtful.

“You’re quite sure?” Varys asked, his eyes still glittering as he looked at Jon. “Some would say that you _are_ the rightful ruler. The rightful king. Surely your oath to the Night’s Watch is no longer binding now that the Night King has been defeated? The Wall breached?”

Jon turned his head slowly, fixing Varys with a hard stare. “‘It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post,’” he recited, his voice grim.

“There, you heard him,” Oberyn said, gesturing sharply and glaring at Varys.

“As honourable as Lord Stark,” someone muttered; Sansa did not catch who. It seemed to come from the general direction of where Lord Andrew and Paxter were sitting.

A tense silence followed. Everyone kept looking at Daenerys, but she was ignoring everyone and sitting as still as a statue.

Davos cleared his throat and addressed Daenerys politely to gain her attention. When she looked up, he said, “what are your plans, if I may ask?”

“I will fly to Winterfell, collect my army, go on to Eastwatch and sail from there to Tyrosh,” Daenerys said at once, her tone firm and decisive. She had clearly thought the matter over.

Maester Gormon raised his brows. “You intend to take Victarion’s ships?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t Victarion’s men object to that?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to go with her,” Paxter said. “The Ironborn reavers would enjoy sacking a city like Tyrosh,” he added, his expression scrunching up with distaste.

Davos shot Paxter a quelling look. “And once you have taken Tyrosh?” he said to Daenerys in the same polite tone as before. “Are we to expect your return?”

Sansa glanced at Jon, tensing. Daenerys had not answered Jon when he’d asked what she planned to do after Tyrosh in the Great Hall. Had the intervening hours changed anything? Had she thought this through, too?

A fraught silence settled oppressively over them as everyone stared at Daenerys, wondering what she had in mind. Her expression was almost completely unreadable, but Sansa still got the faint sense that she was drawing this out deliberately.

“No,” Daenerys finally said. Sansa exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “I have done my duty as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I have saved you all from the Others. But I see now that I must continue the work I began years ago, and finish leading the slaves of Essos to freedom.” She raised her chin, her eyes shining with a passion and a purpose that compelled Sansa to lean forward in her seat. “And once I have freed them, I will lead them to rebuild my family’s ancestral home in Valyria.”

_From the depths of the Smoking Sea_  
_arise the summits of a fallen city_  
_touched by magic, fringed in fear_  
_the cries of dragons in the air._

_Where roam the ghosts of silenced voices_  
_once together, now alone_  
_the night in darkness kisses sphinxes_  
_high upon their tower homes._

The poem echoed in Sansa’s memory, and to her it seemed to reverberate in the stunned silence that followed Daenerys’s pronouncement.

“None who go to Old Valyria return,” Oberyn said, bringing the magic of the moment to a sharp halt.

“That may or may not be true,” Varys objected. “Euron Greyjoy claims to have sailed there and back quite recently.”

Paxter snorted. “Euron Greyjoy is a craven, reaving, sack of -”

“ _I_ think,” Jon said, cutting Paxter off with a glare, “that it is a fine idea.” He sent Daenerys a small smile. “If anyone can rebuild Valyria, I’m sure it would be you.”

Daenerys returned his smile after a moment's consideration, and again Sansa could not help but be drawn to the confident glow that seemed to emanate from her. “Thank you, Jon Snow.” She looked over at them all, her eyes bright. “In Valyria, there will be no slaves,” she said. “Only free men and women, and more prosperity than anywhere else in the known world.” She rose to her feet in a smooth movement. “I have nothing more to say to you, my lords.” She beckoned Jatala to follow her, and swept from the room in much the same way she had arrived, with Jatala almost floating along rather than walking in her wake, stars in her eyes.

The door closed behind Daenerys and Jatala, and they who remained glanced at one another, many looking as dazed as Sansa felt.

“Well,” Varys said, his voice loud in the quiet. “I suppose I see her point. Why settle for being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms when one can become the empress of the New Valyrian Freehold?” He pursed his lips, looking both faintly amused and thoughtful.

Oberyn made a loud, disgusted ‘tuh’ sound, and crossed his arms in front of him, his eyes mutinous.

“May the gods have mercy on the Tyroshi,” Lord Andrew muttered, shaking his head. Sweat pearled on his brow, and he reached for a handkerchief inside his sleeve to wipe it away.

There was another long, strange silence as they all seemed lost in their own thoughts. To Sansa it seemed both oppressive and relieved; heavy and light.

Lord Florent cleared his throat, and everyone turned to stare at him. “If we have settled that neither Daenerys Targaryen, nor… _you_...” he looked down his nose at Jon, “are to claim the Iron Throne, and we are agreed that Stannis should be declared dead, seeing as Lady Stark has confirmed that he has not been found, and several days have gone by since the Battle of Winterfell...” he went on, weaving his fingers together and placing them on the table in front of him, “... I say it is well past time we crowned Princess Shireen.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting that Queen Sansa is with child,” Maester Gormon said, exchanging a quick look with Paxter. “Surely the princess cannot be crowned until it is certain that she does not have a brother.”

“Well, _someone_ must be crowned,” Lord Florent said. “We cannot have seven kingdoms and no one to sit upon the Iron Throne.”

Paxter looked briefly at the ceiling. “No one is suggesting that, my lord.”

A very long, tedious argument ensued, where Lord Florent insisted Shireen must be crowned, and Paxter continued to protest that it was impossible to crown her before Sansa gave birth. Sansa might not have thought it possible a year ago for an argument to go on for such a long time with nothing new being said, but that had been before she’d come to know Lord Florent.

“There is an obvious solution,” Lord Andrew said in the end, interrupting Lord Florent in full flow about Shireen’s many admirable qualities, his voice edged with the irritation Sansa was sure they were all feeling. “Queen Sansa will remain queen while she is with child, and Lord Davos will remain Hand. The princess will remain a princess until we know whether she is to have a brother.” He looked at Sansa. “You would both agree to that, I presume?”

Sansa was a little startled by the question, but it did not take her long to think the matter over. Lord Andrew was not really suggesting a change, after all. Things would go on the same way as they had been going since Stannis sailed north. “I cannot speak for Princess Shireen, but I think it is a fine idea,” Sansa said, inclining her head at Davos. “Lord Davos has proved to be a capable, trustworthy Hand, and a good ruler in the king’s absence.”

Davos sent her a small smile, inclining his head in return. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I believe you misunderstand. _You_ would be the reigning ruler. I would merely be your Hand.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, her stomach wobbling oddly. She glanced at Jon, unable to think what to do or say.

Jon gave her an encouraging smile.

“It would be temporary, of course,” Lord Florent said, looking pointedly at the table where it blocked Sansa’s stomach from view.

“I - yes. Of course,” Sansa said, her face feeling strangely hot and cold at once. Everyone was staring at her. She swallowed, realising that they were all waiting for her to confirm that she would agree to this. Her heart beating hard, she took a deep breath. “If Princess Shireen agrees, I will agree.” _It will only be temporary,_ she told herself, clinging to Lord Florent’s words. _And Davos will be ruling, really. No matter what he says._

“Excellent. Shall we send for the princess?” Lord Andrew asked briskly, looking around at them all.

“Shouldn’t we, the members of the small council, agree to it first?” Lord Florent said snippily.

“I agree to it,” Paxter said immediately.

“And I,” Varys followed.

Maester Gormon nodded in a dignified way. “It seems a reasonable course to me.”

Everyone looked at Oberyn.

He chewed on his tongue for a moment, seemingly thinking hard.

Sansa imagined she knew what was preventing his agreement. If he agreed, he’d be accepting House Baratheon’s continued reign, and while Oberyn had never explicitly _said_ he intended to support Daenerys’s attempt to take the throne away from the Baratheons, his every action had all but screamed it. Agreeing to Lord Andrew’s plan would be admitting defeat.

“You did agree, my prince, when we negotiated the truce, that House Martell would consider the debt owed due to Elia and her children’s deaths settled if the Crown were to meet your conditions. The Crown is still ready to honour that agreement,” Davos said steadily, looking directly at Oberyn.

Oberyn narrowed his eyes. “Those terms were negotiated under very different circumstances.”

Davos glanced at Sansa. “The queen and I are both perfectly willing to negotiate again, if that is your wish. Nothing would please us more than to find a way to right the wrongs that were done to your House.”

Sansa nodded seriously. “Please, my prince. Have the seven kingdoms not had enough fire and blood for one winter? Can we not find a path to peace?”

Oberyn exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes. “Fine. But this conversation is not over.”

A swooping, relieved sensation fluttered briefly in Sansa’s stomach before her insides tightened once more. She suspected that Oberyn would demand something more substantial than a position on the small council and a sum of gold now that he was no longer stalling for time; hoping to marry his nephew to a Targaryen queen, but she was also certain that she would happily pay his price for peace, whatever it ended up costing.

With Oberyn in agreement the eyes of the small council turned to regard Lord Florent.

Lord Florent flushed, his mouth set in an angry line. “Oh, very _well_.”

“Good,” Davos said, straightening his shoulders. “Now, shall we send for the princess?”

Lord Florent began to say something in answer, but a knock at the door interrupted him.

Ser Rolland appeared in the doorway without waiting for permission to enter, looking harassed, his face dirty, his armour streaked with something dark that Sansa dearly hoped was mud. “What am I supposed to do about the smallfolk, my lords?” he asked without preamble. “My men are becoming overwhelmed.”

“You must use my men if you need reinforcements,” Paxter said at once, his expression becoming alarmed as he took in Ser Rolland’s dishevelled appearance.

Ser Rolland nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

“And perhaps you should make another announcement, Your Grace?” Davos said, looking at Sansa. “We must reassure the people that all is well, and they calmed down the last time you spoke to them.”

“Princess Shireen should be there for the announcement too. She was there during the last one,” Lord Florent interjected officiously.

Sansa stared down at the table in an attempt to keep from sending him an unladylike glare, the same emotion she had felt when Davos had asked if Shireen wanted to join the meeting flaring back to life. It was a feeling that seemed to have rows and rows of sharp teeth, ready to tear Lord Florent apart. “The princess is very upset at the moment, my lord,” Sansa said, somehow managing to keep her tone steady. “If she wishes to accompany me she is welcome, but only if she wishes.”

Lord Florent raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Should the smallfolk be told the king is dead?” Varys asked, distracting them.

“Not now,” Davos said, shaking his head. “We’ll tell them the dragons are leaving. That Daenerys Targaryen is returning to Essos, and that Queen Sansa is pregnant with the king’s child. We must reassure them that all is well, not upset them further.”

***

With Ser Gerald, Ser Allard, Brienne, Jon, and Aegon riding in tight formation around Sansa, Davos, and Shireen, all of them wearing their most impressive armour - or in Jon’s case, the imposing, black fur cloak he had arrived in - and Paxter’s finest knights, and Ser Rolland’s finest gold cloaks surrounding them all, the spectacle they made was enough to stop the frightened mob in its tracks as they emerged from the Red Keep.

Shireen still looked terribly pale, but her eyes were determined, and she had dressed carefully in a black velvet gown, dripping with fine lace. “I wish to help,” she had said when Sansa asked if she’d like to ride into the city, making sure that Shireen knew she did not have to if she could not face it. “And I must… do my duty.” Much had gone unspoken between them in the long moment that followed those words.

Sansa wore her cloth-of-gold gown and her tiara, her sable cloak draped over her shoulders in a way that kept the shining fabric of her gown visible. She knew that it would look dazzling in the sun, and hoped the spectacle would help distract the people from their panic. _And I will be the more prominent target if they attack. Shireen might escape if they come for me first._

Ser Rolland rode ahead of them all with his sword drawn and raised to the sky, shouting at the people that the queen wished to address them all, and that they were riding to the Great Sept.

For a tense minute, Sansa breathlessly waited to see whether the people - rapidly recovering from the shock of seeing this parade of knights and royalty - would attack them. She could see Ser Gerald’s eyes darting every which way, lingering on groups of wild-eyed young men in tattered clothing, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword.

She closed her eyes and prayed, the leather of her gloves creaking as she tightened her grip on her mare’s reins. _Please gods, please. Just let me speak to them. Let them listen._

Her stomach dropped when the crowd started screaming with renewed fervour, howling obscenities at Ser Rolland, and chasing after the parade, but she knew a surge of hope when she saw that none were outright charging at them.

 _Thank you,_ she thought, her heart pounding as she raised her eyes towards the sky, wondering whether the gods were watching. _Thank you._

It took a long time to reach the steps of the Great Sept, to clear them of angry, frightened people, and to produce any semblance of order so that Sansa might speak, but eventually she found herself standing before her subjects once more, so many eyes on her that it made her dizzy.

Drawing strength from Jon’s presence and Aegon’s; Davos’s and Shireen’s, and thinking to herself that if Shireen was strong enough to be here, doing her duty despite everything, Sansa was strong enough to do hers, and say what needed to be said.

“Once again I must thank you all for your trust and patience,” she began, noting that the crowd stilled, and a hush fell. “And once again I must remind you that the dragons are not here to harm you.” She explained in simple words that the dragons would both be leaving soon, and that Daenerys Targaryen had decided to return to Essos. It was difficult to keep from saying more, to keep from explaining about Jon, and how Stannis might truly be gone - though her heart still refused to believe it - but she knew Davos was right. Now was not the time. “Please take comfort,” she said in the end, looking over the entranced crowd, “in knowing that a large shipment of food has been delivered to us from Tyrosh. The markets should contain fresh fruit, grain, and meat as early as tomorrow.” She smiled when the crowd rumbled with cheers. “And take comfort in the pleasant weather we have been enjoying, the prospect of a splendid tourney, and -” She hesitated, placing her hands deliberately on her stomach. “And please take comfort in knowing that Grand Maester Gormon has confirmed I am carrying the king’s child.”

The crowd exploded into wild celebratory cheers, waving their hands and applauding, whooping and screaming, and after a few confused moments of exhilarated chaos, into chanting her name, and Stannis’s.

It was overwhelming. Almost like standing before the sea in a gale, the wind whipping her face. But there was no wind. Only the voices of her subjects.

“See,” Davos near-shouted into her ear so that his voice might be heard. “You are their queen.”

It didn’t seem quite right that she should believe him, but standing before this sea of cheering, chanting faces, Sansa felt something fierce stir inside her breast; similar to the emotion she’d felt on Shireen’s behalf with the rows of teeth, but more… vast. She nodded once, unable to speak.

 _I will do my best for them all,_ she vowed. _My very best._

***

“Is it always like this?” Jon asked, relinquishing the reins of his borrowed horse to a groom, patting the beast’s flank affectionately.

“No,” Sansa said, watching Aegon dismount a little ways away. Davos and Shireen were already inside the castle, as Davos had been fretful of Shireen lingering in the bustling, muddy courtyard. He would have shepherded Sansa inside too, but Sansa had told him she wanted to wait for Jon.

Jon helped Sansa down from her horse, though he did it more awkwardly than gallantly. “Sorry,” he mumbled, when her skirts got splattered with mud.

It was Sansa’s very finest gown, but for some reason, she could not bring herself to care as she usually would. “It will wash out,” she said, smiling. She smiled at the groom that took her mare away too, and the young man blushed scarlet.

“Were you asking about the mob, Lord Snow? Don’t let Her Grace fool you. It’s like this every other week!” Ser Gerald said loudly from where he and Brienne were standing a few paces away, his mouth twitching at the corners.

“Don’t listen to him,” Sansa said to Jon, not even bothering to glare at Ser Gerald. “The city is usually quite peaceful.”

“I can’t believe how you managed to calm them down like that,” Jon said, shaking his head and staring at her with mingled admiration and disbelief. “They were ready to tear us all apart.”

“They just needed to be reassured,” Sansa said.

“Yes, but they really listened to you,” Jon said, his tone soft. “Just like Father’s - Lord Stark’s - bannermen always listened to him.”

Sansa looked down at the muddy ground, deeply touched, her face growing warm.

“I mean it,” Jon said, reaching to touch her chin with a gloved hand, gently prompting her to look back up. “I think Father would be proud of you. And I think King Stannis would be relieved to know the throne is in such good hands.” Jon stared into her eyes. “You are the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa. You proved that today.”

Her heart jolting at the mention of Stannis, and her breast filling with warmth at Jon’s kindness, she glanced over at Ser Gerald and Brienne. They seemed to be having their own conversation now. Ser Gerald was gesturing wildly, Brienne looking both amused and a little exasperated. 

“Did Stannis ever talk about me?” she asked quickly. Hopefully the noise of the horses and grooms and the clanging armour of dozens of knights would provide her and Jon with a measure of privacy in the crowded courtyard.

“Sometimes,” Jon said, looking a little surprised by the question. “We didn’t speak to each other very often except to discuss military tactics, mind.” There was something unsaid in his eyes however, and Sansa tensed. “But occasionally we ended up crossing paths. Usually because of Ghost. I don’t know why, but Ghost often sought Stannis out at night. Whenever I woke up and Ghost wasn’t where I expected him to be, I’d usually find him in the King’s Tower.” Jon gave a little laugh.

“Oh?” _How curious._

“We’d talk when I came to find Ghost,” Jon went on. “Once or twice he asked about you. What you were like when we were growing up.” Jon made a face. “Well, he didn’t ask directly. But he wanted to know; I could tell.”

“What did you say?” Sansa asked, her heart fluttering. This was more information than she had dared to hope for.

“I said you had always been radiant,” Jon said, the crooked smile appearing again. “And a perfect lady as long as I’d known you.”

Sansa shook her head, her heart both much too full and devastatingly empty at the same time. “Jon, that’s not true.”

“On the contrary, I’m sure it’s completely true, my queen,” Aegon’s voice said, mud squelching beneath his boots as he approached. Sansa looked around and saw that he wore a small, uncertain smile, as if he weren’t quite sure whether he was welcome.

“Aegon,” she said, returning his smile as warmly as she could. “I don’t suppose you and Jon were properly introduced?” They had all been in such a rush to get out of the castle; Sansa didn’t even rightly know how Aegon had ended up on her guard.

“No, my queen.”

Thinking briefly of what Varys had said at the meeting earlier - _A prince raised as a bastard, and a bastard raised as a prince_ \- Sansa made the introductions. “This is Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and my half-br - my cousin.” She blushed at her blunder, but moved on quickly. “Jon, this is my friend, Ser Aegon. He was raised by Jon Connington in Essos.”

“Well met,” Jon said, glancing from Aegon to Sansa with a silent question in his gaze. She gave a small nod, knowing that he was wondering whether Aegon was the one Varys and Oberyn had spoken of during the small council meeting. Jon’s expression turned thoughtful and intrigued, and he looked more closely at Aegon’s black, scaled armour.

Aegon, meanwhile, was staring intently at Jon’s face. “Is it true what they’re saying? You’re a Targaryen?”

“Yes,” Jon said, shifting uncomfortably, and glancing at Sansa.

“He’s not here for the throne, though,” Sansa said quickly, impressed and a little unnerved the news of Jon’s parentage had reached Aegon’s ears so soon. _Nothing travels faster than gossip._

Aegon opened and closed his mouth. “You look nothing like a Targaryen,” he said, almost more to himself than to Jon.

Jon shrugged. “I take after my mother.” His eyes rose to Aegon’s silver hair and lingered.

Aegon followed Jon’s gaze. “You have the Targaryen blood but not the appearance of it, while I have all the appearance but none of the blood,” he said with an awkward laugh, running his hand through his hair.

Grimacing, Jon looked down at the muddy ground. “I suppose.”

“But are you really a dragonrider?” Aegon asked, taking a step closer to Jon, a poorly hidden longing in his eyes.

Jon nodded, still looking immensely discomfited. “I am.”

“Are you going to keep Rhaegal?” Sansa asked, suddenly curious. “Or is Daenerys taking him back to Essos with her?”

“We’re bonded,” Jon said, crossing his arms briefly before dropping them to hang stiffly at his sides. “He has to stay with me.”

“Won’t Ghost be jealous?” Sansa asked, glancing at Aegon’s overwhelmed expression and hoping to lighten the mood.

Jon smiled crookedly, his posture unclenching a little. “I don’t know. But ranging will be much easier with Rhaegal.”

“Ghost?” Aegon asked, looking curiously from Jon to Sansa.

“My direwolf,” Jon said.

Aegon’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline. “You have a dragon _and_ a direwolf?”

Flushing, Jon shrugged.

“You’ll have to start charging admittance to what’s left of the Wall,” Ser Gerald said, walking over to join them, Brienne following close behind.

Jon did not look amused.

“You’re going back to the Wall?” Aegon asked, eyebrows still raised in surprise.

“I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said, as if this was answer enough.

“But… I thought the Wall was breached?” Aegon looked from Jon to Sansa and back. “Will there still be a Night’s Watch? What will you _do_?”

Jon sighed, his expression a little irritated. “Before everything went to shit north of the Wall, Lord Stark and I made a truce with the Free Folk, but I don’t know if that will hold now. A lot of them have lost their homes, and it will be a good long while before the dust settles. I believe the Night’s Watch will be kept busy enough watching the border and making sure the Free Folk and the northerners get along.”

Sansa nodded to herself. She knew the Night’s Watch main purpose for the past hundreds of years had been to keep the wildlings from running amok. Jon was probably right to expect that there would be plenty of work ahead to keep the peace.

“And the thieves, tax-evaders, and rapers of the Seven Kingdoms will still need to be sent somewhere, won’t they?” Ser Gerald said sardonically.

Again, Jon failed to look amused.

“Taking the black is a noble pursuit,” Brienne said, scowling at Ser Gerald.

“Oh, yes,” Ser Gerald said, rolling his eyes. “Very noble. Freezing your arse off on a massive block of ice with not a wench or an alehouse around for hundreds of miles -”

“I didn’t realise knights of the Kingsguard were so concerned about access to wenches and alehouses,” Brienne interrupted archly.

“Perhaps I will come visit,” Aegon said to Jon, tactfully changing the subject. “I heard many stories of the Wall when I was younger - I’m sure it’s a sight to behold.”

Sansa shifted from foot to foot, sinking deeper into the mud. “You promised you’d stay for the tourney, ser,” she reminded Aegon. The idea of him going away made her insides squeeze up, though she knew he would have to leave _eventually._

Aegon gave her a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t miss it, my queen.”

“Is this the tourney you mentioned in your speech?” Jon said, turning to look at Sansa with interest in his eyes.

“Yes. We are to have a victory tourney,” Sansa explained, still strangely unsettled at the thought of a future where Aegon would not be near. She did not feel for him what she felt for Stannis, but he had been a good friend to her, and she did not want him to go. _But he cannot simply remain as a guest at the Red Keep forever..._ “To celebrate the Night’s King’s defeat.”

“I might have to return to see that,” Jon said, smiling his crooked smile. “There will be prizes, I assume? Gold and glory?”

 _Prizes…_ Sansa stared from Jon to Aegon, an acorn of an idea taking root. “Yes, of course,” she said, her mind racing. “There will be thousands of gold dragons for the victors, and - ” She hesitated, wondering if she should say anything before discussing her idea with the small council.

“And?” Jon looked curious.

“And perhaps the victors will also be offered a chance to join the Kingsguard,” Sansa said, glancing quickly at Aegon to see his reaction. His eyes widened with understanding, and then lit up.

Jon looked intrigued as well. “You shall have to call it the Queensguard now, won’t you?” he said lightly. “But I’m sure Arya and Bran will be wild to come see it. The tourney, I mean.”

“I hope you will tell our brothers and sister that they’re always welcome here,” Sansa said sincerely, reaching to touch Jon’s arm. “Just as you are.”

Jon nodded, his eyes full of emotion. “I will, Sansa. I promise.”


	35. The Tourney of the Two Queens

The first day of the tourney dawned clear and bright. Birds sang outside Sansa’s window, bolstering the hope that had taken root: the hope that spring might truly have arrived. A white raven had yet to arrive from the Citadel, but Grand Maester Gormon said it was only a matter of days now.

“Arya?” Sansa said, shifting to poke her sister, still not quite able to believe that she was really there. “Are you awake?”

“No,” Arya groaned, pulling the covers up over her head and rolling over to turn her back on Sansa. “Too early.”

Sansa smiled to herself and settled more comfortable against her pillows, not in any rush to get up.

“Will you watch the jousting with me today?” Sansa asked after a little while, poking Arya again.

A few shockingly unladylike swear words rose from the lump that was her sister, and then, “I won’t share your bed again if you won’t let me sleep.” 

“Arya,” Sansa said, trying to sound as prim as she could. “What would Septa Mordane say if she heard you say such things?”

“I don’t know,” Arya groused. “And as she’s back in Winterfell, making cow eyes at Lady Margaery’s belly, I’m unlikely to find out any time soon.”

Stifling a laugh, Sansa went quiet for a few minutes, thinking of the day ahead. 

The city had been a hive of activity for the past weeks, preparing for the tourney while people poured in from all across the Seven Kingdoms to take part, sell their wares, or simply observe the spectacle. A few weeks ago, Sansa would have worried about such a stream of people bringing more plague and misery, but thankfully the grey plague seemed to have burnt itself out for the most part. The treatment houses were still open however, and travellers were informed of the law that King Stannis had put down. Most received the treatment without complaint, though a few of the men returning from the north insisted that after surviving the white walkers, they feared no plague. (“Idiots,” according to Ser Rolland.) Despite being weary of war, many of the returning knights, freeriders, and men-at-arms were entering the lists; eager to win glory and riches, and a chance at joining the Queensguard. But a large portion of the men who had fought the white walkers had yet to return, as places on ships were both expensive and hard to come by.

_And they can’t all fly like Jon._

“Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if Jon could have come?” Sansa asked, keeping her tone purposefully light and airy. She turned her head to pay close attention to Arya’s prone figure, but Arya did not tense up or stop breathing or do anything suspicious. 

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Jon couldn’t come with us. He’s too busy with the wildlings. But he said he might still fly south for your nameday feast,” Arya said, rolling to face Sansa so that she might aim a glare at her. Her face was flushed from being under the covers, her hair a tangled mess.

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked in a wheedling tone. One of the knights that had sailed south with her family was a mystery knight dressed all in black. Apparently, he had yet to speak a single word to anyone except his squire, so everyone had started to refer to him as the Silent Knight. Sansa was convinced he was Jon in disguise, but Arya swore she had no idea who he might be. Mother had confirmed Arya’s assertion that the Silent Knight and his Norrey squire had only joined Winterfell’s party in White Harbour, and that he hadn’t revealed his face once on the journey south. (“He’s lucky he isn’t sea sick,” Arya had said when the two of them had first discussed the matter. “Or he would have had to be sick inside his stupid helm.”) The helm in question was said to cover his face near completely, and the shield he carried was blank.

“I’m absolutely, positively sure,” Arya said, reaching for a spare pillow and throwing it at Sansa’s head. “Now let me sleep.”

Sansa avoided the pillow; she doubted Arya had been aiming properly. Putting the mystery knight from her mind, she placed a palm on her stomach, feeling to see if there was any sign of a change to her figure. Mother said that now that she was twelve weeks along, she might expect her belly to start swelling. But Sansa had yet to notice any changes in her appearance. There had, however, been changes in how she was feeling. Her stomach was not as unsettled as it had been for the past several weeks, and her breasts no longer felt sore and tender; indeed, she felt almost her old self again. The first morning she had awoken without the usual nausea making her miserable, she had been afraid it meant something was wrong, but her mother had assured her that everything was as it should be.

 _How good it is to have Mother here._ She turned to glance at Arya; lying still with her eyes determinedly screwed shut. _How good it is to have all of them here._

Her family had arrived a week ago by way of _Queen Sansa_ ; captained by none other than Lord Dale Seaworth. Apparently, Dale had been at sea when the dragon wight had attacked the fleet anchored in Eastwatch, therefore escaping unscathed. The miracle of reclaiming her family - and all the Seaworth men who had gone north - had given Sansa more joy than she had thought it possible to feel. And even though Robb and Margaery had stayed behind due to Robb’s injury and Margaery’s condition, Sansa was still thanking the gods each and every day for bringing her mother, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Uncle Brynden, Summer, and Shaggydog safely to her. Theon had remained in Winterfell with Robb.

The first days of her family’s visit had been fraught with emotion. The joy of seeing each other, mingled with the powerful grief they all felt, had given rise to tears and laughter, and prolonged bouts of energetic conversation in between hours of silent, mournful contemplation. They had not left Maegor’s Holdfast during that time, holding onto and comforting one another, telling stories of Father, and remembering him.

Mother had barely left Sansa’s side since she’d arrived, embracing her so tightly and so often, that Sansa was becoming quite adept at holding her breath. It had come as a shock to see how much Mother had aged since Sansa had last seen her, but she still smelled of home, and she still called Sansa her sweetling. And when the opportunity came, she finally, _finally,_ spilled every secret she knew of being a wife and a mother, sharing her wisdom as she brushed Sansa’s hair until it shone every night.

“I wish you would have told me all this before you left,” Sansa had said a couple of nights ago, thinking of the mistakes and worries she might have avoided.

“I’m sorry, sweetling, but I always intended to return before the wedding. I thought we had time...”

It had been very odd for Sansa to be faced with the quiet, pale version of Arya that had arrived a week ago, though she knew she herself had probably been just as quiet and pale. But Arya had been so withdrawn and sad that Sansa had hardly recognised her. Moreover, she had flowered, and was beginning to approach womanhood. She had started to grow into her long face, and all of her water drancer training had given her a lithe figure and a graceful bearing. After a few days in the city, Arya had started to become more like her old self however, and yesterday they’d even had a screaming match when Ser Gerald had caught Arya trying to sneak out of the castle on her own.

Bran and Rickon had both grown a startling amount, though the change was much more noticeable in Rickon’s case. He was older than many of the Red Keep’s pages at eight years of age, and reminded Sansa so much of Robb that it almost hurt to look at him. Bran, on the other hand, had grown in a different way. He seemed much more confident than he had when Sansa had left Winterfell, and more certain of himself and his needs. There was no embarrassment, helplessness, or anger in his eyes when he required a litter or a sedan chair to get from place to place, and he had a wheeled chair that allowed him to travel without assistance when there were no stairs blocking his path. Of course, he preferred to be on horseback whenever he could, making use of the special saddle that allowed him to ride just as if he were whole. Though he was in mourning - like they all were - he was also excited by the prospect of the tourney, and spoke frequently of all the knights that had entered, and wondered where they would all place in the joust. Sansa had spent hours with him, trading stories of famous knights, and listening to Bran describe his encounters with Ser Barristan.

“He said you had told him all about me,” Bran had said with a smile at one point, his eyes bright with joy mingled with grief. “And he said that my seat was so good that I might even be able to joust in a few years time...”

Pulling herself to the present moment, Sansa poked Arya once more. “Come on, it’s getting late. Mother will worry if we make her wait much longer.”

Breakfast was a lively affair. Sansa laughingly scolded Rickon for feeding Shaggydog and Summer scraps from the table, but did not succeed in dissuading him. Meanwhile, Shireen and Bran - fast friends almost from the moment they’d met - were having a spirited debate about mystery knights, while Mother tried to convince Arya to wear a gown for the grand opening of the tourney.

The bickering, the chatter, and Rickon’s delighted laughter when Shaggydog licked his hand free of every last drop of bacon grease, warmed Sansa’s heart as she looked over the table, wondering how she had been able to live without them for more than a year. A part of her wished she could return to Winterfell with them when they were to go back, but she knew she would not leave King’s Landing any time soon. _I cannot leave my subjects._ For better or for worse, she was the reigning queen until she gave birth. And if she had a girl, and Shireen became queen - freeing Sansa of the Crown’s heavy weight - Sansa did not think she would be able to abandon her.

 _We’re in this together._

_The Two Queens._

The common folk had taken to calling them that after Stannis’s death had been announced. There were even a few songs making the rounds, though Sansa hadn’t heard any of them in full. It had not seemed appropriate to call for a singer while she and her family were in mourning.

“You mustn’t embarrass your sister,” Mother said to Arya, her stern voice drawing Sansa from her thoughts.

Arya looked ready to stab something other than her eggs with the fork in her hand.

“She won’t,” Sansa said quickly, still much too grateful to Arya for bringing the end of the war about to worry over her appearance. It would be _better_ if Arya could be persuaded to wear a pretty gown, but if she didn’t want to, Sansa thought she had earned the right to wear whatever she wished for the nonce.

“Well, she is of an age to be betrothed,” Mother said, pursing her lips and fixing Arya with a piercing look. “And this tourney is a fine opportunity for -”

“For me to prance about in a stupid gown?” Arya said, pushing her near-empty plate away and scowling. “I don’t want a betrothal. I want to be a water dancer!”

“Sweetling,” Mother said, sighing. “I had hoped… now that Syrio Forel is no longer with us…”

Arya crossed her arms and glared. “What? That I would suddenly turn into Sansa?”

“Arya,” Sansa said, shooting her a pleading look.

“No!” Arya said, pushing herself away from the breakfast table and getting up. Everyone stopped speaking and eating in order to stare at her. “Syrio may be dead, but I’m still _me._ I still want to fight. Brienne is allowed, the Mormont ladies are allowed. Why can’t I?”

“You are the sister of a queen,” Mother said in a dangerous tone.

“I don’t care! I’m going to the training field.”

Arya slammed the door behind her, making Mother wince. Rickon did not let this bother him, and resumed his plan to feed his entire breakfast to the direwolves, but Bran and Shireen looked between Sansa and Mother with concern in their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Mother said, smiling tightly at Bran and Shireen. “Please forgive my daughter’s behaviour, Your Grace.”

Shireen blushed a faint pink. “Nothing to forgive, Lady Stark.”

“You’re too kind,” Mother said, sitting stiffly and glancing frequently at the door Arya had just slammed.

“Brienne will follow her,” Sansa said softly to her mother. “Or Uncle Brynden. She won’t come to harm.”

“Lady Brienne is filling Arya’s head with nonsense,” Mother snapped. “I don’t know why she insists on competing in tourneys…”

“Lady Brienne deserves this chance to earn a place on the Queensguard, Mother.”

“I suppose she does,” Mother said, sighing as she poured herself a second cup of tea. “Poor girl.”

It had not taken a long time to convince Davos and the members of the small council that the victors of the tourney should be offered a chance to earn a place on the Queensguard. Even though Uncle Brynden was now Lord Commander, that still left four empty spots to fill. “Offering the tourney victors the chance seems an elegant solution to the problem,” Davos had said approvingly.

Brienne and Aegon had both been training four or five hours a day since the announcement had been made. Brienne for the melee; Aegon for the joust. If castle gossip was to be believed, many wagers were already in place, predicting all sorts of outcomes for them, but though Sansa had not placed any bets, she was privately quite certain they’d take the top prizes.

“You will save a place for dear Willas today, won’t you?” Mother said, her tone suddenly as sweet as Sansa’s honey-laced tea.

Sansa gave her mother a dutiful smile. “Of course, Mother.”

She had told her mother everything about how Willas had all but threatened to support Daenerys’s attempt to seize the throne if Sansa did not promise either her own hand or Shireen’s to him, and while her mother had been sympathetic, she had advised Sansa not to dwell on it. (“The Crown will need House Tyrell’s support,” she’d said. “You must consider the future, Sansa.”) 

But Sansa could not seem to think of anything that would happen after she had her baby. Could not fathom another husband. She was simply trying to make it through each day as it came, slowly and steadily coming to accept her current position, and doing her best to give her broken heart a chance to mend.

_Perhaps it never will?_

The way she and Stannis had parted weighed on her soul, and sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, having lived through their last argument once again only for it to end with Stannis’s face burning until it was charred black. Or sometimes he turned purple and horrible like Patchface instead. On Arya’s second night in Maegor’s Holdfast she had found Sansa having awakened from such a vision, and she had kept her company as she slept every night since.

Mother seemed to think that marrying again would be the best course of action, regardless of whether Sansa had a girl or a boy. (“Nothing heals a broken heart so well as a new love.”) And - unfortunately - there were many who agreed with her.

Sansa did not think it a coincidence that House Tyrell was not the only noble House that had descended on the city in its entirety, or that Trystane Martell had entered the lists despite having earned his spurs only a few scant weeks prior.

And Sansa’s hand was not the only one sought after.

If not for Prince Oberyn, Sansa would have considered sending for Lord Lannister so that he might escort Shireen to the feasts and sit by her side during the tourney games, thus detract aggressive suitors from approaching her. But the Crown’s relationship with Prince Oberyn was still so tenuous that Sansa did not dare to do anything that might offend him and ruin the ongoing negotiations. And she was certain Lord Lannister’s presence would do just that.

Sansa’s had to trust that the uncertainty of whether she would have a boy or a girl would act as a shield - both for herself and Shireen - preventing hopeful suitors from making outright proposals.

_They will all wish to wait and see._

After breakfast, Sansa was lovingly laced into new, black silks, embroidered with gold and silver thread; all over stags, antlers and little wildflowers. Her hair was tamed into a complicated style full of twists and plaits, and a new, gold filigree tiara - antler designs again prominent - glinted among her shining, auburn hair. The full skirts and long sleeves made the gown very grand and splendid, and despite her nightmares, her grief, and the weight of responsibility that kept her stomach in knots most days, Sansa felt a small, girlish thrill of excitement when her maids and her mother exclaimed over the finished effect.

She decided to ride her mare to the tourney grounds rather than going by carriage or litter, and as she rode through the city, smiling and waving at the cheering common folk who were all heading the same way she was, her mind drifted to the past, to a time when this same charged feeling had hung in the air. She closed her eyes, recalling the litter that had taken her to the Hand’s tourney, and the gossamer-thin curtains of yellow silk that had seemed to turn the world golden. Jeyne had been with her then, and Septa Mordane, and Sansa had been breathless with astonishment at all the splendour.

Her heart swelling with the sweet ache of her memories, Sansa looked over at Davos, riding beside her, at Bran and Shireen, both of them impeccably dressed and riding with straight backs, and then at Uncle Brynden, Ser Gerald and Ser Allard in their scaled, milk-white armour and blinding white cloaks. Several litters carrying Lady Marya, Mother, Rickon, Jeyne, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa followed after them, and Sansa glanced to make certain they were keeping up with the horses. Arya and Brienne had ridden ahead at least an hour earlier, and were nowhere to be seen. Summer and Shaggydog were also missing. They would remain at the castle, as the excitement of the tourney would no doubt agitate them, and their presence might spook the horses.

The world was not golden today, but the sky was a clear blue, with perfect white clouds floating serenely by. Sansa was not breathless or giddy, but her heart nearly burst when she saw the river bank where hundreds of pavilions had been raised, and galleries for the court and the royal party to view the tilts. There were knights everywhere, their armour polished to a high shine, their helms in fantastic shapes and sizes, banners and shields emblazoned with coats of arms in every thinkable colour on display.

_It is still like a song._

Prince Oberyn’s camp remained on the other side of the Blackwater Rush, though it hardly looked a camp of soldiers anymore. After the Golden Company had left, and the likelihood of a battle or a siege coming to pass faded, the remainder of the camp had fallen into disarray, and most of the time it resembled a merry travelling party rather than a war camp. Many of the men from the camp - both knights and freeriders - had entered the lists, and Sansa knew that nearly every tilt of the day would include at least one Dornishman.

“Your Grace,” a familiar voice said soon after Sansa’s mare came to a halt. Aegon was approaching her, his intent to help her down from her horse clear. He smiled when their eyes met, his skin lightly flushed; his eyes determined.

“Ser Aegon,” Sansa said, smiling, “how well you look.” His black armour was always most impressive, but he had clearly had a new helm made. _A griffon,_ Sansa realised, examining it closely. _With rubies for eyes._ “I like your helm.”

“Thank you, my queen,” he said as he helped her down, his hands lingering a little longer than they should. “I sold the rubies from my sword to have it made, though I kept these two.” He gestured at the griffon’s eyes. 

“Soon you shall have enough gold to buy all the helms you wish for,” Sansa said, shooting him a smile.

He glanced over at Davos, Shireen, and Bran, still in the process of dismounting, and at the litters where the rest of Sansa’s party was emerging. “Might I have a moment?”

Sansa took a few steps away from her party with Aegon, though they remained in full view.

“I had hoped to catch you before any of the others,” Aegon confided, glancing over his shoulders at the multitude of knights already walking and riding hither and thither.

“Oh?”

Flushing a deeper shade of red, Aegon nodded. “I hoped - I hoped I might be so bold as to request your favour,” he said in a rush.

Sansa did not have to think about it. Indeed, she had been hoping he would ask. It was widely known that Aegon cherished an ambition to join the Queensguard; bestowing her favour on him would not be seen as a romantic gesture as much as it would an approving one. “Of course,” she said, smiling and reaching for the black, silk handkerchief she had carried with her for just such an occasion. She handed it over, pleased with how the gold thread she had used to embroider her initials glittered. “And may it bring you luck, ser. I am relying on your victory in the joust.”

“You would be pleased?” Aegon asked, stepping closer and holding her favour as if it were a great treasure. “Were I to win and claim a place on the Queensguard?” He searched her eyes, his gaze intent.

“Nothing would please me more,” she said, though her chest tightened a little as she spoke. “I confess I did not like your idea of going to visit my cousin at the Wall. I would much rather have you stay.”

“Then I will stay,” Aegon said. With a quick glance to ask permission - which she granted with a small nod - he then brought her hand to his lips for a kiss.

“That’s enough of that,” Uncle Brynden shouted from his place a few paces away, though his tone was good-natured.

“Ignore him,” Sansa said, when Aegon took a large step back. “His new position as Lord Commander has gone to his head.”

Aegon laughed. “Perhaps it has, but I should think it best to keep him happy, Your Grace. Hopefully he will be _my_ Lord Commander, soon.”

As Sansa and her party made their way through the tourney grounds towards the royal gallery, stopping frequently to speak to familiar knights, lords, and ladies, Sansa was forced to deny three different hopefuls her favour, telling them - with no small amount of relief - that she had already bestowed it. She was happy to encounter Ser Arvin Goodbridge and Ser Jallen Wallyce, both in high spirits and eager to congratulate Uncle Brynden on his new position, and she nodded to Ser Gordon Bowman and his wife from a distance. Jeyne exclaimed loudly that Devan was the most handsome knight she had ever beheld when they passed him and the other Seaworth men, and they lingered for a long moment as Jeyne granted Devan her favour and several passionate kisses. Sansa exchanged a smile with Shireen as this happened, knowing that they both felt equally happy for the pair. Eventually they passed House Tyrell’s green and gold pavilion, where Garlan and Willas stood; the former in armour, the latter dressed in a fine doublet. More interestingly, Sansa spotted a knight in plain black armour lingering in the pavilion’s shade, with a helm that covered his face near completely, standing next to a squire that carried a blank shield.

_It must be him. The Silent Knight._

The squire had the northern look about him, and Sansa recalled he was a Norrey of the mountains. A part of her wanted to call out to him; ask him, as his queen and sister to his liege lord, to reveal the mystery knight’s name to her. 

Putting the urge aside, she hurriedly made her way towards Garlan and Willas, though her eyes remained on the knight in black and the Norrey boy.

“Your Grace,” Willas said, his eyes brightening as he spotted Sansa. “And Princess Shireen,” he added with a bow, before greeting the rest of the party.

Garlan bowed courteously as well, and just as Sansa had hoped, the Silent Knight took a few steps out of the shade to observe them, allowing her to observe him in return.

“I see you are dressed for battle. Are you to joust, ser?” Sansa asked Garlan, forcing her eyes away from the knight in black.

“No, no, Your Grace,” Mace Tyrell said, emerging from the pavilion with Garlan’s wife, Leonette, and Olenna Tyrell on his heels. A pair of enormous, near identical guards followed after them all. “My Loras was always the jouster. Garlan will fight in the melee. There’s not a sword that can match him!”

Sansa nodded politely, but wondered how he would do against Brienne, recalling how she had cut Varrapho’s guards down.

“Father,” Garlan said, ducking his head. “You exaggerate.” With a small smile, he quickly explained that he was wearing armour because he planned to take part in a mock battle between two teams of knights that was to take place alongside the archery competition. 

“Is Loras to compete in the joust?” Sansa asked politely, looking from Garlan to Mace.

“No. He remains in Highgarden,” Garlan said, his eyes becoming a little sad. “With spring upon us, there is much to be done. But he sends his regards.” The sadness passed away as he gave her smile, and Sansa might almost have believed that she had imagined it.

“Seven heavens, Your Grace,” Lady Olenna said to Sansa some moments later, looking her over with a critical eye. “Don’t your cooks feed you? I was told you were expecting, and here you still are with the waist of a maid.”

“Surely you recall how it was with your first, my lady?” Mother said sweetly. “I barely started showing until I was five months along when I carried my Robb.”

“Aye, it was the same way when your mother had her first, little Cat,” Uncle Brynden contributed. “Fit into all her gowns until the very end.” His expression was sad as he spoke, and Mother’s eyes grew sad too; they nearly always did when anyone spoke of Grandmother Minisa.

Olenna hmphed, but did not pursue the matter further.

They discussed some of the knights there were slated to do well in the lists for a while, and Sansa kept the Silent Knight in her peripheral vision, watching him watch them, and trying to tell whether he could be Jon.

 _He is taller than Jon,_ she realised with a disappointed pang, _and rather broader in the shoulder._

“My queen,” Willas said when the conversation dwindled, stepping forward and leaning on his cane. “Might I escort you to your seat?”

Aware of her mother’s gaze on her, Sansa gave a tight smile. “Of course.”

As they began to walk away from the Tyrell’s pavilion, Sansa’s hand on Willas’s arm, she looked quickly over her shoulder to catch one last glimpse of the mystery knight, and saw to her surprise that he had started to follow them. But he stopped when he saw her looking, and retreated towards the shady place where his squire remained, the front of his helm now turned towards Mace Tyrell and Lady Olenna.

Just when the royal gallery came into view, their party was brought to a halt again. This time they were waylaid by Prince Oberyn and his companions: his two daughters, his paramour Ellaria, and his nephew Trystane. Obara and Trystane were the only ones wearing armour. Ellaria and Nymeria were both strikingly dressed in bold colours, sparkling jewels, and sheer fabrics, and Trystane was just as handsome and serious as when Sansa had first met him some days ago. His straight black hair was concealed by his helm today, but the fine, high bones of cheeks, and the healthy, olive complexion of his skin was still visible.

“Fine weather we’re having,” Willas said after the customary courtesies were exchanged, smiling at Oberyn. “I’m reminded of my first tourney.”

“Your _only_ tourney, my friend,” Oberyn said, shaking his head. His face was almost unreadable, but Sansa thought she saw a hint of remorse in his eyes.

Willas just laughed. “I hope the gods are kinder to your nephew,” he said, nodding at Trystane.

Trystane paled, but nodded resolutely back. “Thank you, my lord. I pray the gods will favour my lance today.”

“You’d do better to ask a lady for her favour,” Oberyn said, giving Trystane a pointed look while Ellaria laughed good-naturedly at Trystane’s blush.

Sansa closed her eyes and steeled herself, knowing what would happen next.

“Princess Shireen?” Trystane said, surprising Sansa a little. “Would you do me the honour of granting me your favour?”

Shireen looked briefly surprised too, but recovered just as quickly as Sansa had. “Pardon me, ser,” Shireen said, meeting Trystane’s gaze as she gave her well rehearsed response. “But I should not feel right, bestowing my favour on someone other than my betrothed.”

Trystane nodded, looking half relieved, half disappointed. “I understand, Your Grace.”

“But I wish you the best of luck,” Shireen added.

“Please, my prince,” Sansa said, addressing Oberyn quickly and hoping that Trystane would not try to ask her for her favour next, “won’t you walk with us to the royal gallery?”

Trystane fell into step with Shireen and the two servants carrying Bran in a simple sedan chair, and Sansa heard the three of them strike up a conversation about cyvasse as they all began to walk along the trampled, muddy, grass of the riverbank.

A few minutes later Sansa and her companions finally made it to their seats, though Trystane and Obara bid them farewell, and did not join them in the gallery. Uncle Brynden, Ser Gerald, and Ser Allard did not join them either, though they remained nearby, on guard. Sansa supposed they would take turns at their posts; Ser Gerald and Ser Allard had both entered the lists.

Sansa, Shireen, and Prince Oberyn were all given ornately carved chairs to sit upon at the very front and centre of the gallery. Benches were available for their companions, and Mother, Willas, Ellaria, and Nymeria sat down directly behind them, the others spreading out to the sides or further back. Bran remained in his sedan chair, though the servants put him down and retreated.

“Where is Arya?” Mother asked, sounding half fretful, half irritated. “She promised she’d meet us here.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said truthfully. “But I’m sure she is well. Brienne is with her.”

The tourney was to open with an archery competition. Later in the day the joust would begin, and as the lists were full to bursting, it would likely take three - or even four - days to determine the victor. On the last day the melee would take place early in the day, and then there would be time to finish the joust if need be. Several mock battles between teams of knights were also scheduled, and there would be a feast every evening, culminating in Sansa’s nameday feast.

It had been Lord Florent’s idea to combine the victory tourney’s final feast and Sansa’s nameday feast in this way, though Sansa’s true nameday was still a few weeks off. It made a lot of practical sense - most of the people who would have been invited to the nameday feast would be in the city for the tourney - and it would save the Crown a lot of gold to combine the two occasions.

As the first archers made their way to the field, Sansa’s eyes wandered over to the court gallery and the commons, taking in the sea of people eager for entertainment. The noise was deafening, and the people were cheering so enthusiastically - stamping their feet and hollering for the archers - that the wooden gallery beneath her trembled.

“You thought Trys would ask for _your_ favour, didn’t you, Your Grace?” Nymeria said, leaning forward to speak right into Sansa’s ear.

“Yes,” Sansa said, seeing no point in lying.

Nymeria’s red lips curved into an amused smile. “You would do well to remember what we once discussed, Your Grace. Whether you have a boy or a girl, Dornish custom dictates that Princess Shireen is the rightful heir. She is the firstborn.”

Sansa’s stomach clenched up. _Is that their new aim, then?_

Willas spoke before she could, though Sansa was surprised he’d managed to hear what Nymeria said. 

“But we are not in Dorne, my lady.”

Nymeria straightened up, and did not reply.

There was a fanfare of brazen trumpets, and a herald shouted that the queen would now open the tourney. Sansa tried to put Nymeria’s words from her mind, rose from her seat, and smiled as a respectful hush fell over the crowd. The archers on the field took the knee, their bows proudly on display. 

“Welcome one and all!” she said, trying to make her voice as big and grand as she could. “I now pronounce this tourney open. May the best archer win!”

There was a fresh explosion of cheering, and the archers lined up to hit the first set of targets as Sansa sat back down, her heart beating quickly. The archers who managed to hit the first target at twenty paces, would progress to targets fifty paces away, and then a hundred. Those who managed to hit the third targets would then compete among themselves, in a contest of precision and accuracy.

Sansa did not recognise all of the archers as they were named; some of them were unheralded commoners, and there was even another mystery knight. This mystery knight was much more slender and boyish than the Silent Knight, however. He wore a simple helm and light armour that allowed him to move freely, and carried a beautiful weirwood bow.

“Theon has a bow like that one,” Bran told Shireen. “He’d take the top prize in this competition easily if he were here.”

Most of the archers managed to hit the first target, but half failed to hit the second target convincingly enough to progress to the third. The mystery knight acquitted himself well, and made it all the way to the final contest. The other two who made it as far were Marak Sunderland and a Dornish knight named Joss Hood.

As they moved closer to the royal gallery to hit the final targets - allowing Sansa a better view of the as she was to judge the winner - Sansa had to stifle a small gasp. There was something about the mystery knight's lithe way of walking that she thought for a moment… _No, surely not?_

Sansa held her breath as the final arrows were shot, and waited impatiently as the targets were carried over to her to be judged.

The mystery knight was the clear winner, with Marak a close second.

“Ser,” Sansa said, her heart racing as she examined the mystery knight before her, trying to decide whether her suspicion could be true. “It is time you revealed your true name; you have won twelve thousand gold dragons this day.”

The knight pulled his helm from his head, revealing a dark plait that fell near to his waist, and a long, stubborn face that was decidedly not male.

_Arya._

Gasps and mutters rippled through the crowd, and Sansa heard her mother inhale sharply on the bench behind her.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Arya said, staring up at Sansa with a challenge in her gaze. Lifting her chin, she turned to address the court gallery and the commons. “I am Arya of House Stark, Slayer of the Night King.”

There was a brief, stunned silence, and then another explosion of applause and cheering. When some of the noise died down, Sansa spoke.

“You are aware that you have also won a chance to join the Queensguard, if that is your wish?” 

Behind Sansa, her mother stiffened in her seat.

“I am, and I do,” Arya said. For a moment the two sisters stared at each other. Sansa wished she could ask Arya whether she was sure. She was so young. Could she really be certain that she never wished to marry? Have children of her own? But Arya’s gaze grew solemn as they continued to search each other’s eyes, and she gave a tiny nod; almost as if she had read Sansa’s thoughts.

“Very well,” Sansa said, her heart hurting for her mother as she let out a wounded noise behind Sansa’s back. “You will be trained by Ser Brynden Tully, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. If he deems you worthy at the end of your training, your name will be written into the White Book.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Arya said, holding Sansa’s gaze for a moment longer and then inclining her head.

The crowd began to cheer and stomp their feet once more as Arya left the field.

“I must go speak to her,” Mother said, sounding distraught. “I must speak to my uncle.” Without another word, she rose from her place and left the gallery.

“How interesting,” Oberyn said, turning to look at Sansa with a raised brow, and then glancing behind him. The two Dornish ladies and Willas were eyeing Sansa with interest, too.

Sansa looked away, seeking Shireen’s comfort instead. Shireen did not fail her. She gave Sansa a consoling look, and grasped her hand subtly, the fabric of Sansa’s voluminous sleeves keeping the gesture hidden from prying eyes.

“If she is as good a sword as she is an archer, I now see why the Night King could not withstand her,” Willas said, leaning close to speak into Sansa’s ear.

Mother had yet to return when the joust began, and with her mind occupied with Arya and her mother, Sansa was hard pressed to keep her attention on the tilts. But as she was queen, and would be called upon to settle disputes, she had to watch closely.

Dornish riders triumphed in the first several jousts, and Oberyn smirked at Sansa from his seat beside her after Ser Daemon Sand unhorsed one of the Red Keep’s knights so violently that he flew several feet in the air before hitting the ground at an angle the made the whole crowd gasp. Thankfully, the knight was able to get up, but he required help to vacate the field. When the time came for Ser Jallen and Ser Bowman to compete however, they both unhorsed Dornishmen in their second passes, which wiped the smile from Oberyn’s face. In the first joust that did not include anyone from Dorne, Ser Arvin rode three passes at Ser Gerald, and was declared the loser when Sansa determined that Ser Gerald had the steadier lance.

When the time came for the Silent Knight’s first match, the crowd broke out in excited whispers. Sansa even managed to forget her worries over Arya for a moment, and sat up straight, her eyes more alert than they had been for an hour.

The Silent Knight took to the field riding a massive, grey courser against Ser Arron Qorgyle’s swift, but much smaller, sand steed. The mystery knight rode hard, and lowered his lance with precision and confidence at just the right moment. It took no one by surprise when Ser Arron was unhorsed in the first pass. The Silent Knight’s lance did not even splinter when it bypassed Ser Arron’s shield to hit his light armour, and he landed on the ground with an audible _crack_.

Jeyne, Carellen, Marissa, and Alynna all shrieked, and Sansa winced. _Something must have broken._

Oberyn sighed. “I told him sand steeds were no use in a joust. They’re good for many things, but they cannot carry immense loads, and jousting requires robust armour.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Indeed, most of the other Dornishmen seemed to know this, as they mostly rode coursers or destriers and donned armour of steel plate. Trystane looked even more slender than he truly was atop his enormous warhorse, even with his armour padding his frame, and Sansa was afraid that he’d be unhorsed in his very first pass. But he was steadier than he appeared, and managed to withstand Ser Allard for two passes before succumbing.

When Aegon rode his first joust, Sansa’s heart thundered along with the horses’ hooves, and she squeezed Shireen’s hand tightly. It was a close match, but thankfully Aegon was able to unhorse his Dornish opponent, a freerider, in the third pass. She exchanged smiles with him as he left the field, and felt much lighter as she watched the final jousts of the day, cheering almost as loudly as Jeyne when Ser Devan defeated his opponent.

***

Aside from the blazing row Mother and Arya had after the first feast, and the heavy tension between Sansa, Willas, Oberyn, and Shireen, the victory tourney was turning out to be much more enjoyable than Sansa’s first. No one had died as of yet - which was a vast improvement - and the feasts had been well managed. There had been some drunken revelry, but no scandals had occurred, and she had not ended up alone, in the dark, with a scarred, frightening man and his terrible stories of a monstrous older brother.

The excitement reached a fever pitch yesterday, when the jousting should have ended. The matches between Aegon and Ser Gerald, and between the Silent Knight and Ser Daemon Sand had been so close that the entire crowd, both highborn and common, had held its breath in the final passes. But just as the sun had been setting, it had been determined: the Silent Knight would meet Aegon in the final joust.

Their tilt was to take place on the last day of the tourney; today. After the melee.

More than fifty men, and at least two women, entered the melee field. Only one would remain.

Sansa watched Brienne closely - her sapphire blue armour, and her immense size making her easy to spot - and saw, to her surprise, that she and Obara seemed to be working together. At first the teams of men they fought seemed to underestimate them, swatting impatiently at them and expecting them to collapse as easily as straw men, but as the melee wore on, Sansa could see how Brienne’s and Obara’s opponents began to take them seriously, and eventually, fear them. In the end, it was just the two women against a few stragglers - Garlan Tyrell among them - working back to back and seemingly unstoppable.

The commons screamed and hooted when at last Garlan surrendered, and the time came for Brienne and Obara to turn on each other.

Obara used a blunted spear, while Brienne fought with a tourney sword. The spear gave Obara more reach, and she was a sight to behold as she ran circles around Brienne, swift as the snake she was named for. But Brienne was patient and tireless, and eventually she was able to break Obara’s spear with her might, and catch her in a headlock that none could withstand.

“Should I tell my brother that I bet against him?” Willas said to Sansa, applauding loudly for Brienne and collecting a jingling purse from a very sullen Oberyn.

Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Surely that would be cruel.”

Willas just laughed and shook his head.

Brienne had tears in her eyes when Sansa declared her the victor, offering the prize of twenty five thousand gold dragons and a chance to prove herself to the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

“I accept,” Brienne said, smiling in a way that made her beautiful, her blue eyes glittering with her unshed tears. “I accept, my queen.”

Sansa was certain - in that shining moment - that whatever happened with her baby, with Willas, with Trystane, and Shireen, whatever the future brought; all would be well.

“Two women on the Queensguard?” Ellaria said once the roar of the crowd finally began to wane, her tone thoughtful. “King’s Landing is becoming positively Dornish.”

“I can’t imagine your husband would have approved,” Oberyn said to Sansa, raising a brow.

“Perhaps not,” Sansa said, following Brienne’s progress from the field with her eyes. Obara had walked over to her, and they were talking companionably as they progressed out of Sansa’s line of sight. “But he was a just king.” She turned to look at Oberyn. “And I think you must agree that my sister and Lady Brienne earned their chance at a place in the White Book fairly.”

Oberyn blinked, but nodded slowly, considering Sansa.

The final event of the tourney was so anticipated, and so heavily wagered upon, that Sansa swore there were more people watching, squeezed into the court gallery and bursting out of the commons, than she had seen together in one place in her life. Not even in the marble plaza before the Great Sept had she seen so many faces.

_A lot of gold will change hands this day._

Aegon’s black destrier snorted impatiently, one hoof scratching at the ravaged mud pit the field had turned into after the previous days of jousting. The Silent Knight’s grey courser seemed oddly still in comparison, though its tail flicked back and forth occasionally.

It was past midday, but the sun still shone brightly enough to make one squint when a passing cloud did not allow for a shady reprieve. A breeze from the Blackwater Rush caught the various banners on display, and Sansa was grateful for it every time it carried the smell of the field - horseflesh, sweat, manure, blood, and filth - away from her nose and out to the river.

It began.

Sansa prayed for Aegon, knowing how much a place on the Queensguard would mean to him after the loss of Jon Connington, and the loss of the name he had believed himself to hold his whole life. _The Queensguard will be a fresh start for him. A place in the world. A home._ She gasped when their lances both landed solidly on the shields they carried, exploding into splinters on the first pass.

As their squires handed them fresh lances, Sansa reminded herself to breathe.

“Who do you suppose he is?” Willas asked, his eyes on the Silent Knight.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, still disappointed that her theory about Jon could not possibly be true; Jon was slighter than the Silent Knight by far. But there was something about him that drew her eye, nonetheless. Something that had been bothering her since she’d first seen him.

“He reminds me of someone - I feel as if I should know him,” Willas said, sounding quite as bothered as Sansa felt.

“I know what you mean,” Shireen said, speaking up unexpectedly.

“And I,” Davos added, frowning.

They watched as the grey and the black began to thunder towards one another once more, lances held high at first and then wielded with pin-point precision to splinter against shields once again.

The crowd roared its displeasure, wanting a clear result.

Sansa glanced at Shireen and found her hand waiting. They both squeezed, their fingers entwining.

Fresh lances once again at the ready, the two knights faced off for their third and final pass. 

_Please, please,_ Sansa prayed, staring at Aegon’s griffon helm, its ruby eyes glinting in the sun.

At the same time, both horses leapt into motion.

The crowd gasped as the Silent’s Knight’s lance hit Aegon’s shield with enough force to split it clean in two. Rather than exploding, the lance plunged on through, hitting Aegon’s shoulder just as a piece of his shield knocked into his helm. By some miracle, Aegon managed to cling to the saddle, but the result of the tilt was clear.

The Silent Knight had won.

The crowd went _mad._ The noise was enough to spook the horses, and they reared and whinnied, their eyes rolling. Aegon’s squire nearly got kicked before Aegon was able to get free of the beast.

After what felt like an eternity, the two of them approached the royal gallery, and Sansa rose up to award them their winnings. The victor would have fifty thousand gold dragons, but Aegon would receive twenty-five thousand as the runner-up. But she had not yet spoken when Prince Oberyn got up beside her.

“Well done,” he said in a carrying voice that nonetheless got a bit lost in all the noise. He picked up a wreath of white roses - the first to bloom in Highgarden in three long years - and threw it towards the Silent Knight. “You may crown your queen of love and beauty, ser.”

Sansa looked at Aegon, who was staring at the wreath in the Silent Knight’s hands with forlorn, disappointed eyes, and knew a terrible sadness for him. And in truth, she was sad for herself, too. This would have been her chance to live her girlhood dream. Aegon would surely have crowned her, and it would not have been a scandal because he was to become a knight of the Queensguard.

_It would have been like a song._

She made herself look at the Silent Knight instead, and smile.

He took a step forward, and spoke for the first time in a deep, familiar voice, removing his simple helm as he did.

Stannis’s deep, blue eyes blazed up at her, his face all over determination and jagged edges.

“I name my wife, Sansa Baratheon, the queen of love and beauty.”


	36. The Return of the King

Stannis was still in his armour, still clutching the wreath of white roses. The quiet of his solar unnerved Sansa after the wild, unbridled celebration that had broken out in the tourney field, the rushed ride through the city, and the hustle and bustle of the Red Keep.

Stannis, who had been looking around the room with a far-off expression, glanced at Shireen, Davos, and finally at her, his eyes slipping into focus. “Well?” he said, voice tired.

She raised her brows. _Well?_

Since he’d revealed himself, Sansa had been struggling with how to react. First, she had nearly fainted with shock, but then Uncle Brynden had been tugging on her arm, and everyone had been shouting, and the next thing she knew she was being taken to the Red Keep. As they had walked through the castle, she and Shireen had looked at one another, knowing without speaking that they were feeling the same stunned disbelief. Impossible to cry. Impossible to even speak. Sansa had thought about stopping their progress, throwing her arms around Stannis’s neck and hugging him tightly. Just to see if he was really there. She had also thought about _screaming_ at him. How could he have put her and Shireen through this… this… terrible grief?

“Well what?” Davos said. His arm was wrapped protectively around Shireen’s shoulders. She was shaking, and staring at her father almost blankly, her jaw clenched tightly shut.

“You must have questions,” Stannis said, moving to sit down on the bench by the window, his armour creaking. He looked at the wreath in his hand for a long moment before placing it carefully down beside him.

“Of course we have questions. But you’ll want to get out of that armour… have a bath?” Davos said, his eyes lingering on Stannis’s grimy face and mud-splattered armour.

“Unpleasant tasks are best finished quickly. Ask me your questions.” Stannis’s eyes slid from Davos to Sansa.

 _Unpleasant tasks? Is that what this is? An unpleasant task?_ She met his eyes, and the fraying thread that had been keeping her together snapped.

“How could you do this to us?” Her voice was high-pitched and cracked at the end as her throat closed up. “You’ve been alive all this time? You’ve been _here_ , in King’s Landing, for more than a week and you never -” She covered her mouth with a hand and squeezed her eyes briefly shut. _Gods._

Stannis grimaced and looked down at his hands. “Sansa...”

There was a tense, heavy silence.

“Father,” Shireen said, her voice tiny. “Is it really you?” She gave Davos a look that prompted him to let her go, and she walked over to Stannis and sat beside him on the bench.

“Yes,” Stannis said, nodding gravely.

Shireen sat very still, just staring, for what felt like a long time. But then tears welled up in her eyes, and a sob escaped her, and she threw her arms around Stannis’s shoulders. He embraced her back tightly, holding her as sobs continued to rack her slender frame, his face contorting with emotion as he too began to shake.

 _Good,_ Sansa thought, trying to cling to righteous anger even as more tears built up behind her eyes. _At least he feels the suffering and pain he caused us._

Davos touched Sansa’s elbow and brought her attention to a pair of chairs he had dragged over to the bench. They sat down and waited for father and daughter to collect themselves. Under normal circumstances Sansa knew she and Davos would have left and allowed them this moment in private, but there was nothing normal about anything that had happened since Stannis had revealed himself.

“Father?” Shireen asked hoarsely, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief Davos handed her. “How -? Everyone said… they said you died.”

Stannis swallowed several times, wiping his face with the palm of his hand. He managed to spread sweat, grime, and tears around, and looked worse now than before. 

“Unlike Robert, I have never had a thirst for battle,” he began slowly, not meeting any of their eyes. “I have always preferred to command from the rear, and that was what I intended to do when we made our last stand in Winterfell.” He took a deep breath. “But when Lord Stark refused to have the human remains in Winterfell’s crypt moved before the battle began, I had one of my men stationed at the entrance. The door was closed off and barred, of course, but I was convinced it would not be enough.” He paused, eyes closed, and took another steadying breath. “Halfway through the battle the door’s guard came to me; told me the wights within were breaking through.” Stannis looked up at them all now, eyes haunted. “I had to go. We were on the verge of losing; had the wights broken through and taken us in the rear… ” Stannis clenched his jaw shut and stared down at his hands.

“Jon Snow told us you went to the crypt with Ser Barristan and some others,” Sansa said, her heart in her throat. “But what happened in that crypt?”

Stannis looked up at the sound of Jon’s name, but did not appear surprised. He merely nodded. “We needed the wights to come after us rather rather than swarm out of the crypt to harm the women and children sheltering within Winterfell’s walls,” he explained, his eyes jumping from Shireen, to Davos, to Sansa and back, his voice agitated. “We used flaming torches to attack them while that enormous stableboy held the door, keeping them from escaping.”

Sansa’s heart clenched up. _Hodor._

“It was pitch dark outside the immediate glow of the torches, and the wights were…” He paused, closing his eyes and visibly blanching. “They were old - some were scarcely more than bare bones - but they were just as tireless as the freshly dead.” His words; the look on his face, painted a terrifyingly vivid picture in Sansa’s mind, and for a moment she felt the cold grip of horror through to her core. “My men fought bravely, but fire is a treacherous weapon.” He clenched his jaw shut. “One by one they were defeated, until it was just me and Ser Barristan, trying to draw the enemy deeper and deeper into the crypt.” 

“Did he survive too?” Davos asked, though his eyes were devoid of hope.

Stannis gave him a bleak look. “Somehow we found ourselves in the mouth of a narrow tunnel. Ser Barristan told me to keep going. To go deeper into the tunnel. He swore he would kill the remaining wights and then come after me.” He stopped talking for a long moment, his jaw working. “But I knew he would not return to me. I knew.”

Sansa closed her eyes, grieving for Ser Barristan all over again. _He died with honour, protecting his king._ The thought gave her little comfort.

“I tried to go back for him when I realised I could no longer hear the sound of any fighting, but something happened… I’m not sure what.” He hesitated, looking at Shireen. Her expression was rapt, but fearful, and Stannis clenched his jaw before going on with his tale. “I had been injured in the struggle with the wights and I had to give up my torch when I entered the narrow tunnel… It was dark. Perhaps a loose rock hit my head, or else I slipped and fell.” Stannis’s brow was deeply furrowed, and it seemed that he was genuinely struggling to remember. “I don’t precisely know what happened after that, or how much time went by before I next regained full consciousness.” He scowled for a moment. “But when I woke up, I was far from Winterfell’s crypt, and I had no memory of who I was or what had happened to me.”

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. “What?”

“Where were you?” Davos asked at the same time.

“With the women and children of House Norrey,” Stannis said, sounding almost loath to admit it. “In the mountains north of the wolfswood.”

“Couldn’t they tell you how they had found you?” Davos asked, frowning. “Couldn’t they recognise you and tell you who you were?”

Stannis made a face. “How could they have known me? They had never seen me before. They had just enough sense between them to tell by my armour that I was someone of importance.”

“But where did they find you?” Davos asked again, leaning forward in his chair.

“They said they found me under their heart tree, barely alive.” He shook his head. “Insisted that the ‘children of the forest’ must have brought me there,” he added, scoffing.

_Perhaps they did._

“It took a few days for me to start coming back to myself. To regain my strength,” Stannis went on, glancing at the three of them in turn before staring back down at his hands. “Soon I became seized by the idea that I had to go to King’s Landing, though I was not certain why.”

“And that was when you went to White Harbour?” Sansa asked, trying to fit the pieces of the story she already knew into his.

“Yes. Felir Norrey - my squire - went with me. On our way down from the mountains my memories began to return, in fragments at first, but then more and more. By the time we reached White Harbour I knew who I was. I remembered everything.”

Davos shifted in his chair, shaking his head and furrowing his brow. “Why did you not send a raven at once? Why did you not approach the Starks and reveal yourself? Or my sons? _Anyone?_ They would have helped you.”

“I kept hidden when we reached White Harbour and sent Felir to gather news. That’s when I heard of the victory tourney,” Stannis said, his expression becoming… strange. His eyes flickered quickly to Sansa and back to his hands. “It was before I knew the Starks and the Seaworths were there, preparing to sail south.”

“What difference did the tourney make?” Davos asked, sounding bewildered.

Stannis glanced quickly at Sansa again. The tips of his ears had turned red. “I decided to enter the lists as a mystery knight. I had Felir sell my armour to procure this cheaper set,” he gestured down at himself, “a helm that would conceal my identity, and passage south.”

“Why?” Shireen whispered, saying exactly what Sansa was thinking. “Why enter the lists? Why as a mystery knight?”

Stannis looked up at her face and swallowed. Most of his face was flushed now. “Several reasons.”

After a long moment went by and Stannis said nothing else, Davos cleared his throat pointedly.

Stannis rubbed at his face; an agitated movement. “I thought it would be an appropriate tribute to Ser Barristan’s memory. To his sacrifice. He competed in tourneys as a mystery knight at least twice.” He dropped his hand and looked at Sansa again, his expression stubborn and oddly uncertain at the same time. “And... “ He trailed off, clenching his jaw as he stared at her, almost as if he were trying to tell her something with his eyes alone.

She frowned back, wishing he would just _speak._

Exhaling sharply, Stannis looked away from her. “And I realised I had an opportunity to be unknown in King’s Landing,” he went on, stubborn again. “To go where I would never be able to go as king. To listen to people who would never otherwise speak freely in my presence.”

“Your Grace,” Davos said, his tone exasperated. “That is what we have Lord Varys and his network of spies for.”

“Lord Varys never found out whether the Tyrells murdered my wife,” Stannis said sharply, glaring at Davos.

“Well, did _you_ find out?” Davos countered.

Stannis scowled again. “No.” He glanced at Sansa, his face hard. “Though I hope you know that Willas Tyrell does not love you.” He looked at Shireen. “Neither one of you.”

There was a flicker of hurt in Shireen’s eyes, but she squared her shoulders and nodded. “We do.”

This seemed to surprise Stannis. His scowl vanished for a moment before reappearing. “Olenna Tyrell is behind it all. She plots, as she always does, to put a Tyrell on the throne. I heard her speak of it. She intends for Willas to marry Shireen if Sansa has -” Stannis stopped speaking abruptly, his eyes going to Sansa’s stomach.

Unconsciously, Sansa’s hand followed Stannis’s gaze. Her palm was warm and solid; comforting. “If I have a girl?” she said, trying to imbibe her voice with some strength. “We know.”

Stannis looked at Davos, and must have communicated some wordless request. 

Davos stood up. “Shireen,” he said kindly. “I believe your father and Sansa need to speak to each other alone.”

Stannis rose as well, and he and Davos shared a brief embrace.

“It’s good to have you back, my king,” Davos said quietly. Sansa probably wouldn’t have heard if the room weren’t so silent.

With firm claps on each other’s backs they came apart. “You will speak to the other members of the small council?” Stannis asked. “Tell them what they need to know?”

Davos nodded. “I will. But you will have to address the court and the common folk yourself.”

Stannis closed his eyes, grimacing. “If I must.”

A look of fond amusement passed over Davos’s face, and he turned to walk over to the door as Stannis and Shireen embraced once again.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Shireen said, her voice muffled against her father’s neck.

A tremor ran through his tall frame and his arms tightened around her. “As am I,” he said.

Sansa watched quietly, blinking back the sting of more tears.

“Will you attend the feast?” Shireen asked as they released one another, her voice hesitant and hopeful. Sansa heard the true question beneath it. _Will I see you again soon?_

Stannis nodded, eyes solemn and almost… soft.

The door closed noiselessly behind Davos and Shireen, leaving Sansa alone with Stannis. 

He sat back down on the bench and stared down at his hands. 

A long, strange silence settled over them; more polite than awkward, and more tense than polite.

“You’re truly with child?” he finally asked, dragging his eyes up to meet hers. There was something desperate in them; something raw. “It is not some plot? Some lie?”

“It’s no lie,” Sansa said, though it was hard to speak.

The desperation eased away, leaving his eyes oddly exposed. “Mine?” he asked, swallowing, his tone not accusing, but more… careful. As if he did not dare assume. Did not dare _hope._

“Of course,” Sansa said with all the conviction she could muster, rising up to take Shireen’s recently vacated seat on the bench and taking his hands in hers. “There has been no one else.”

Stannis searched her eyes for a moment before closing his lids and stilling, breathing in and out, but otherwise not moving a muscle.

“There were rumours,” he muttered. “About you and that knight you gave your favour to: Aegon. And I saw Willas Tyrell escorting you, and you were sitting with Oberyn Martell. He… has a reputation.”

She pulled her hands back from his, an angry heat rising from her chest to her neck, her heart suddenly beating erratically. “What are you implying? What rumours?”

Strangely, Stannis’s temper did not seem to be rising to match hers. He was still sitting very still, his shoulders a little haunched. “I heard that Aegon came here as your enemy. A Targaryen pretender. That you fell in love with him when you saw how beautiful he was, and saved his life.” His hands had clenched up and whitened, but otherwise he looked remarkably calm, and his voice was toneless and monotonous. “They say you’re lovers, and his ambition to join the Queensguard is only a way to give him some legitimate position at court. A reason and a means to stay, as he has no name and no lands nor income.”

 _What?_ Her stomach flipped over and twisted as she considered how such a rumour could have started. Considered how widespread it must be for Stannis to have heard it. “It isn’t true,” she said, voice surprisingly steady given the state she was in. “Aegon and I are friends. That’s _all_.”

He glanced at her and grimaced. “I’m not - I would not have expected - I would not have blamed… “ He broke off with a frustrated sound. “You thought me dead, and I know I was not what you had hoped for. Not the husband you wanted.” He stared into her eyes again, pain and regret written all over his face. He was not even trying to conceal it.

_”... if I’d had the sense to marry a true knight like I always wanted …”_

The words Sansa had flung at him in her hurt and anger rang inside her memory, and her heart constricted, even as fresh anger and confusion surged. “I don’t understand,” she said, frowning. “What are you trying to say?”

Stannis sighed and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “Regaining my memories was not a pleasant experience,” he said, the pain in his voice sharpening. “I woke up with the Norreys unburdened by my past, and while it was... unnerving it was also freeing.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “I did not remember the slights and insults I have endured since I was a boy. I did not remember my disappointments or my losses. But I still knew what was right and what was wrong. I still, at my core, knew what sort of man I wanted to be.” He took a deep breath. “When it all started to come back - I understood - I saw - ” He broke off, rubbing his face. “Seeing myself clearly was… a blow.” He looked up at her, his hands falling away to reveal broken eyes. “I realised I am a much lesser man than I have always considered myself to be.”

“You are a king,” Sansa said hesitantly.

“A king, yes,” he said, his voice full of regret, his broken eyes finding hers. “But no true knight.”

Her heart was beating too hard, and she looked away, not quite sure what to say or do.

Sitting up straight, Stannis picked the wreath of white roses up from where he’d placed it earlier, presenting it to her. “You said one that you had always dreamed of being named the queen of love and beauty at a tourney,” he said quietly.

Sansa forgot to breathe for a moment. _Surely not? He wouldn’t have… would he?_ The Stannis she had come to know was always so irritated with court life and pageantry. She opened her mouth wordlessly. It took her a few tries, but finally she managed to gather her scattered thoughts into a sentence. 

“You remembered that?”

He nodded, staring straight at her with a look in his eyes she had never seen before.

“You… wanted to do that… for me?”

Stannis cleared his throat. “I cannot make myself young, or handsome, or charming,” he said seriously. “But… this at least seemed within my power.” He swallowed and looked down, nudging her hand with the wreath of flowers.

Sansa accepted the wreath, speechless, the rose petals satin-soft beneath her fingers. A tear trickled down her cheek, warm and wet. She closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to speak properly around the lump in her throat. 

She was quiet for several moments, trying to collect herself.

Stannis watched her, muscles clenched, eyes darting from her face to her stomach, his hands balled into fists in his lap. A part of her wanted to take one of his hands and place it on her stomach, even though there was nothing there to be felt. But a much larger part of her was still reeling, still hurting.

“Do you really think I care about you being young or charming?” she asked at length, taking deep breaths.

Stannis blinked, startled by the question. “I -”

“I told you I loved you, Stannis. _You._ The way that you are. Didn’t you hear me? I said it again and again, and you didn’t say it back. You kept… pushing me away. You accused me -”

“I regretted what I said to you even before I lost my memory,” Stannis said, his voice hoarse. “Forgive me. It was… small of me.”

It was a balm to hear his remorse, genuine and true, but it was not what she truly needed to hear. “Stannis, you’re still not listening,” she said, more tears escaping.

“No. I always heard you. I just -” he cut himself off with a frustrated breath.

“You just didn’t believe me?” she asked quietly, her heart sinking.

Stannis shot up from the bench and walked over to his desk before immediately turning around and walking back. His movements were twitchy and agitated, his face taut with tension.

“You must see that it seems absurd,” he said, gesturing, his voice bitter. “Why should you have loved me? There is nothing - “ He broke off, swallowing. “Mine own brothers did not love me.” In his eyes she could see the despairing words that he left unsaid. _No one loves me._

Sansa rose up to face him, looking deep into his eyes. “I do love you,” she said. “And Davos loves you. And Shireen loves you.” 

Stannis took an uncertain step towards her, but stopped himself. “But?” His eyes were wary. A starved look on his face, mixed with disbelief and caution.

She was tempted to say, ‘but nothing’, and simply forgive him. The wound in her heart stopped her. She took a deep breath. “But if I am to trust you, if we are to be husband and wife in truth, you must do more than present me with these.” She lifted the wreath briefly.

“What must I do?” Stannis asked, his shoulders squaring; his gaze intense.

“You must trust me in turn,” Sansa said, her frustrations colouring her voice. “I have shown you that I’m worthy of your trust, have I not? You told me once that you wanted more from me than sewing and singing. I took the lessons you asked me to, I’ve attended countless small council meetings, helped keep the peace through a plague, and two different attempts to seize the Iron Throne… I have been the reigning Queen of the Seven Kingdoms for _weeks_ -”

“I know,” he said with conviction, his gaze steady and frank. “I’ve been silent since I came to King’s Landing; not blind. I trust you, Sansa.”

“If that’s true, then now is the time to _speak._ Talk to me like a husband should,” she said, looking with equal frankness back at him. “Share your thoughts, your worries… your true feelings.”

For a moment there was just that burning intensity in his eyes, but then the vulnerability that had first drawn her to him flickered, and he nodded in understanding. Acceptance.

“I -”

Her heart swelled. “Yes?”

He drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “I never thought you would love me. Nor did I expect you to,” he said, voice raw. “I thought perhaps you would learn to be content. That your position at court - as my betrothed, as queen - would please you enough to tolerate me…” He stared at her, a shadow of fear and worry passing over his face.

Her heart broke a little for him, but she was unable to speak.

“I did not think you could love me, because I did not think love was _real,_ ” he went on, his voice stronger now. He reached out to touch her, wiping his thumb across her cheek. Belatedly, she realised he was wiping a tear away. “I thought it was another foolish fancy of singers and poets; lust dressed up for a mummer’s farce. I believed a good marriage was one where both husband and wife could respect - and perhaps admire - one another and be content. I told myself my desire to wed _you_ rather than any other highborn lady was simply due to those things. Respect and admiration.”

“But?” she said, drawing in a shuddered breath.

“But then I was driven mad by you,” he said, his eyes blazing into life as he took a small step forward. “Your beauty, your kindness, your sense of duty, and your _strength._ ” There was almost no space between them now. “I could not think. I grew enraged with jealousy in one moment, and full of despair the next. I could not _sleep._ ” He closed his eyes briefly, breathing hard. “At first I thought it lust. But my hand could not slake it, as much as I tried. Visions of you haunted my every waking hour, and I was not at ease unless I was close to you, and yet I could not bear inflicting my presence on you.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she deduced what he meant when he spoke of his hand, her imagination spinning briefly out of control. But the true meaning of his words soon had her heart racing in an entirely different way.

“Sansa,” he breathed, grasping her shoulders. “I love you.”

His eyes were still blazing, full of the truth of his words, and Sansa couldn’t bear it anymore. Crying freely, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself as close as she possibly could. He reacted a heartbeat later, tightening his arms around her, squeezing her almost too hard considering his armour. She didn’t care. She just wanted to be close to him. Feel how real he was. _Alive._ She sobbed against the plated steel, her emotions too enormous to be contained, and he stroked her back, one large palm moving up and down, up and down. Warm and comforting.

When they kissed, it was tentative; almost a question that they asked one another. But it soon deepened to something more familiar and desperate, a way of reaffirming their feelings without words, warm and wet and tangible.

An hour might have gone by. Or a minute. 

Stannis broke their kiss and knelt, pressing his face to her stomach instead, shaking almost as much as he had when he’d first embraced Shireen. “It’s really true?” he asked, his voice muffled and unrecognisable with emotion.

“Yes,” she said, her heart growing so large that she was sure she was nothing but heart. “Shireen’s going to have a brother or a sister.”

He gave a sharp inhale, almost a sob, and tightened his grip for a moment. He climbed back up to kiss her once again, burying his hands in her hair and then breaking off, leaning his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes and looked at him, seeing past the sweat and the dirt, ignoring the alarming way his cheekbones jutted, and feeling a pure peace she had not known since the day of her wedding.

_Our child will grow up knowing their father._

Sansa had no real wish to bring up the mundane questions about his armour and the bath Davos had mentioned, but she could not imagine that Stannis was very comfortable, stewing in sweat beneath steel, and eventually - after several more lingering kisses - she was compelled to break the spell that had been cast upon them.

“Would you like to have a bath in my chambers? I doubt yours are ready as yet.”

“Thank you, yes,” Stannis murmured.

For the next half an hour there was a flurry of activity. Servants were called upon, a bath was brought to Sansa’s bedchamber, and Sansa had help getting out of her complicated gown, claiming she wanted to wear something different for the feast. Ella kept her face admirably placid throughout the procedure, even though the king was nearby - albeit behind a screen - getting undressed and barking orders at the other servants.

“Shall I find a different gown, Your Grace?” Ella asked, keeping her eyes firmly averted from the screen and Stannis.

“Not now,” Sansa said, trying to sound nonchalant, but spoiling the effect by blushing. “You may leave. I will call for you and the others when I wish to get dressed for the feast.”

By the time Ella and Stannis’s servants had all left, Sansa was standing by the fireplace in a bed robe of cream silk and her smallclothes, while Stannis was - by the sound of things - stripping his last scraps of clothing off next to the steaming tub.

Her heart beating hard, Sansa walked to the other side of the screen so that she could observe him.

His body had changed, and yet not. He was still tall and broad of shoulder, but he had clearly lost quite a lot of weight. The armour had hidden it well, but he was all sinew and bone. There were several fresh scars, though most of them looked like minor burns. Only one scar, an angry red line that ran down his side from near his shoulder to his hip, left her feeling faint. But though she could count his ribs, and his arms were mostly veins and hair, his thighs still looked as powerful and long as she remembered. She averted her gaze from the patch of dark hair at his groin, growing flustered all over again.

He glanced at her, but climbed into the tub without pausing to request his privacy, sighing as he lowered himself into the water. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, resting his elbows on the edges. For a moment, after the water that had sloshed over the sides of the tub finished dripping and settling, there was near silence in the chamber. The fire in the grate licked peacefully at a few logs, and the scent of bath oils hung heavy in the air.

“You will need to eat properly now that you have returned,” she said, speaking softly in an attempt to keep from disturbing his peace.

He grunted in agreement.

“Are you hungry now?” She took a step towards the servant’s bell, alarmed by the thought that she hadn’t thought to feed him sooner. “I can have something brought here at once.”

“I’m not hungry,” Stannis said, sitting up in the tub and starting to wash himself. His hands moved mechanically, making practised use of the soap.

Sansa walked over to her bed and sat down, trying not to stare openly. Tired and battle-weary as he was, he was still a striking man. And she had never seen him quite like this, though he had certainly seen _her_ in the bath. The memory caused a fresh rush of heat to course through her. 

He finished his bath quickly.

As if he knew what she had been thinking about, he rose from the tub in a rush of water, and stood momentarily still. Droplets raced down his body, steam rose from his skin, his hair plastered to him everywhere, black as night. He wiped the excess water off himself and stared straight at her. She tried to look away - look at the wall - but found that she couldn’t. To her embarrassment, her eyes even strayed to his groin again, though she managed to look back up very quickly. His manhood was innocently nestled in the wet hair that surrounded it, and not jutting out.

“Would you?” He looked at the towels that the servants had left.

Her face burning, she hurriedly got up and handed him one.

“I can go,” he said quietly as he began to dry himself. “If you want me to.”

“I want you to stay,” she said, her voice a little breathless. Her stomach swooping, she undid the belt of her bed robe and let it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. She took a step forward and touched him, her palm flat against his not-quite-dry chest.

Stannis closed his eyes. When he opened them back up, his pupils had blown out completely.

Boldly, she took another step forward, bringing herself fully into his arms. He embraced her at once - carelessly dropping the towel he had been using - and crushed her to his chest.

He was so very, very warm.

She shifted her hips, rubbing herself against him, and he stifled a groan. The sound of his voice did just as much as the feel of his body to turn her insides molten.

“Bed?” he murmured against her lips, moving to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down her neck.

She was already backing towards it, tugging him along and letting out a small giggle when the backs of her thighs hit it. The sound was soon muffled by his mouth as he kissed her fully; deeply. With a nudge, he encouraged her to lie down, and she sank into the feather mattress, tugging him down on top of her, moaning as one of his long thighs wedged itself between hers.

His manhood was rapidly hardening - she could feel it poking into her more and more insistently - but still he seemed in no rush. They kissed, mainly on the lips, but also everywhere else they could reach nearby - jaw, neck, ears, cheeks - their bodies moving languorously together, his thigh pressing firmly, wonderfully, against her. He made no attempt to remove her smallclothes. Soon she was too comfortable to do much more than enjoy the pleasure of being so close, warm arousal stealing all over her until it was humming in her veins.

Eventually he began to trail kisses down past her neck, unlacing the flimsy silk that covered her to lavish attention on her breasts and nipples: licking, sucking, kissing, and filling his palms. The sensation of his hot tongue dragging over one nipple while a calloused thumb flicked over the other made her toes curl, and suddenly she did not feel as comfortable, nor as patient, as she had a moment ago. The warmth of her arousal seemed to burn hotter; almost unbearable. Especially now that the pressure of his thigh was gone.

He kissed her stomach next, gently and almost reverently, stroking the pale skin with war-roughened hands and sending shivers through her.

“You look the same,” he whispered between lingering kisses.

“Mother says my belly should start swelling soon.” She wondered suddenly whether he would like seeing her that way. Devan certainly seemed to like Jeyne’s protruding belly; he was always touching it.

Stannis looked up at her, stilling. “And you have… been well? There hasn’t been any pain? Or blood?” There were traces of old sorrow, past grief, in his voice and his eyes.

“I’ve been very well,” Sansa said, reaching to stroke his cheek. “The nausea was not pleasant, but that’s all done now. Maester Gormon says everything is as it should be, and my mother thinks so too.”

Closing his eyes in clear relief, he grabbed the hand at his cheek and pressed a slow kiss to her palm. Without another word, he then began to kiss her stomach again, moving slowly downwards.

_Much too slowly._

With a start, Sansa suddenly realised he was doing what she had done for him on their last night together. Her heart began to beat out a quicker rhythm; her cheeks warming as she considered whether he intended to do _everything_ she had done. Whether he meant to kiss her _there._

The insides of her thighs were as sensitive as her fingertips, and she felt every bristle of Stannis’s close-cropped beard as he pressed hot kisses to the skin there, his tongue sometimes darting out to lick, or else his teeth grazing gently. 

She moaned and squirmed, but that only made him grip her thighs more firmly as he continued to torment her. The silk of the fabric that was covering her woman’s place from view was slick through and clinging to her scandalously, and she wished he would take it off.

But he did what she had done. He kissed all the way down to her calves and ankles, even pressing a kiss to her instep and the soles of her feet - it _tickled_ \- before making torturously slow progress back up to her thighs.

“Stannis, please,” she begged, wriggling and trying to push her smallclothes off.

Thankfully, he helped her. 

Naked at last, she parted her thighs with a blush, sending him an uncertain look. She would not mind if he simply took her; she felt so empty and full of need that it would please her greatly, but a part of her was curious. The last time he'd kissed her woman's place it had been so brief, and she had been so distracted. How might it feel to be well and truly kissed there?

Stannis was staring at her, his skin flushed all over, his manhood swollen and jutting. It twitched when she looked at it, and he made a small noise at the back of his throat, and wrapped his hand briefly around it, hissing. Clenching his jaw he let go, and settled himself between her thighs as before, kissing the sensitive skin there with renewed vigour.

“Please, please,” she begged again, shifting her hips and trying to chase his mouth. She was desperate to be touched. It was very strange, but she was certain that being touched had not felt as _intense_ the last time they had been together. Her skin seemed more alive, and his lips and hands seemed to bring her a more heightened, more overwhelming pleasure.

When he at last kissed her right between her thighs, right where she needed it most, her limbs actually _spasmed_ with the shock of it.

“Gods - Stannis!” she cried out, her hand going to the back of head to keep him in place.

He kissed her again and again, nose buried in the auburn curls on her mound, as her voice left her control, crying out and begging for more without her conscious mind deciding to say anything. Tentatively, he began to follow his kisses with licks of his tongue, and that was when her body nearly shot up and off the bed.

After that his hands gripped her hips tightly, holding her down as he kept going.

Growing bolder, Stannis started to _devour_ her. It was the only word that came to mind as his tongue and his lips worked on that place that made her tense up and quiver, pleasure racking her body overwhelmingly. His fingers had never felt _this_ good, and the deep, satisfying pleasure of having his manhood plunder her was quite different again. This was much more… raw. And yet so much softer.

The thoughts had barely flitted through the fog of lust that had settled over her mind when Stannis traded licking for sucking, and she seized up and _screamed._

“Did I hurt you?” Stannis asked, looking up at her with frantic concern in his eyes.

“Please don’t stop, please, please,” she begged, tugging on his head.

His eyes darkened, his nostrils flared, and he lowered his lips to her again without another word.

She never wanted it to end. It seemed incredible that she could reach one peak right after another. Or was she simply peaking continuously, never coming down? Her face, her chest, her entire body was flushed with heat, and her muscles were all tense and trembling. She was perspiring as if she were fevered, her hair sticking to her neck and her forehead, and her hips were moving obscenely, rocking against Stannis’s tongue as he kept going, his head trapped by her convulsing thighs.

More incredibly still, she was not fully satisfied when she finally fell limp and released him.

“More,” she begged, looking at his manhood. The head was red and glistening, and she clenched up on the terrible emptiness within her at the sight of it, wrung out with pleasure and yet aching and craving. “I need you inside, please.”

Stannis swallowed, his lips and the skin surrounding them - even his chin - glistening too. “Are you certain?” he asked, his eyes worried. “It will not - it will not hurt the baby?”

“No,” Sansa said, completely certain. Jeyne had wanted to know the answer to that question when Devan had returned, and Sansa had not been able to help finding out the truth. She would have blushed at the memory, but her skin was already fully aflame with arousal. “It’s safe,” she added. “ _Please_.”

He shoulders untensed as a look of pure, unbridled relief flitted over his features. “Thank the gods,” he muttered, mounting her at once.

She lifted her knees to allow him to sink in deeply, her body craving every inch, burning for the delicious fullness; the _stretch_.

Stannis made an incoherent noise and went still, breathing hard.

“Please,” Sansa said, shifting impatiently beneath him. “I’m well, you may move.”

“Wait,” Stannis said through clenched teeth, still breathing quickly through his nose, his chest brushing the tips of her breasts every time it expanded, and the muscles of his arms visibly tensing.

Deliberately, she squeezed her inner muscles, making him groan.

“Sansa - I can’t, I’m going to - _fuck_ -” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please,” she repeated, needing him to move. To take her _properly_. Her body was crying out for it.

There was another incoherent noise, and then he was grabbing her thigh and onto the wooden headboard of the bed, pulling out halfway and thrusting back in forcefully, gasping as he did.

“ _Yes_ , gods, please,” she cried out, the shockwaves of pleasure still vibrating through her.

And then there was just bliss.

He moved roughly, thrusting hard and fast, his eyes squeezed shut, and every single time he filled her she saw more stars. It seemed the finishing touch of all the pleasure that had gone before, like drinking a dark, heady red wine after a sweet dessert.

But though she wished it would go on until they missed the feast, it was over nearly as quickly as when he’d claimed her maidenhead.

He groaned, long and low, and convulsed as he collapsed on top of her, breathing hard.

The scent of bath oils and burning birchwood was near entirely masked now by the more immediate smells of clean sweat, and something musky and thick that made Sansa blush.

“Are you well?” Stannis said several minutes later, after they had settled into a more comfortable position, her head pillowed in his chest. His voice sounded worried.

“I’m perfect,” she said, her entire body glowing with contentment. She even felt lovely between her legs, discounting the usual sticky wetness. There was no soreness or discomfort; only a gentle pulsing that seemed to echo the pleasure that had just been coursing through her. “I love you,” she sighed, her heart swelling.

“I love you too, Sansa,” he said seriously, kissing her brow.

They held each other in contented silence, and Sansa closed her eyes to listen to his slowing heartbeat, smiling to herself. 

“I suppose we should dress for the feast,” Stannis muttered after a while.

 _Must we?_ Sansa wished they could stay abed for hours and hours. It would be lovely; they’d have food brought to bed, and they could love each other again, and he could hold her some more...

“Perhaps we could stay in bed just a little longer?” Sansa suggested hopefully, thinking of the morning after their wedding and smiling.

Stannis grunted disapprovingly, but made no move to get up.

She wound herself around him, taking particular pleasure in tangling their legs together. “Please?” she said, breathing the word against his neck.

Another grunt. Less disapproving this time.

She kissed his neck, keeping her lips parted and letting her tongue dart out to lick the soft skin just beneath the line where his bristles ended.

The next sound he made was more like a moan than a grunt.

Grinning now, she kissed him some more. “Please?” she repeated, wriggling against him deliberately.

“Mm-very well,” he said, his voice muffled by an arm he’d thrown over his face. “But only a little longer. I promised Shireen to attend the feast.”

Even Stannis hadn’t made that promise, Sansa knew they’d have to attend. But there was no law that said they’d have to be there _on time_.

She smiled widely. “Of course. Only a little longer.”


	37. Sweet as Sleep

Sansa and Stannis were not _very_ late to the feast, but they were certainly not on time. 

Ser Gerald and Ser Allard were on duty, and followed them as they made their way from Maegor’s Holdfast to the Great Hall. After catching Ser Gerald’s eye once, Sansa made sure not to glance at him again. The knowledge that he was watching her and Stannis with that smugly amused leer was enough to keep her cheeks warm the whole way up the stairs.

“What do you plan to say to the court?” Sansa asked as they finished the climb, looking at Stannis and pushing Ser Gerald from her mind. “About why you decided to compete in the tourney, I mean.”

Stannis frowned. “The truth.”

“Which part of the truth?”

He gave her a sidelong glance, his frown deepening. “What do you mean?”

“You gave us a few reasons,” Sansa said, keeping her voice low. “Which one do you intend to make public?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Another sidelong glance. “Which one would you recommend?” he asked quietly, his expression serious.

Her stomach swooped as she considered the question; almost too thrilled by his willingness to consult her to think clearly. But the answer was obvious. “Tell them about Ser Barristan,” she said firmly. “He was well loved by the court and the common folk. Your decision to honour his memory will be met with approval.”

Stannis nodded, his eyes going briefly to the wreath of roses on Sansa’s head before he turned to face forward.

As they neared the Great Hall’s entrance, a mouth-watering scent reached them from the kitchens: roasting meat, onions, and various spices, and Stannis’s stomach growled loudly.

“I hope you intend to eat every course,” Sansa said, glancing at him in concern. The velvet doublet she’d persuaded him to wear was not nearly as fitted as it was supposed to be. He looked older than his years with his skin stretched taut over his skull and shadows under his eyes, but the crown he wore - a simple circle of gold - managed to make him look regal nonetheless. “You need it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stannis said with all the weight of a solemn vow.

The previous tourney feasts had been held on the river bank, so Sansa had not yet had a chance to lay eyes on the lavish decorations that had been brought to the Great Hall for the occasion. She knew there would be sweet-smelling roses and banners of cloth-of-gold, but her imagination could never have come up with the splendour that met her eyes when the doors opened.

The entire court and all the visiting nobles - at least a thousand people in beautiful gowns and doublets of every colour, glittering with jewels and perfumed to perfection - were on their feet, giving her and Stannis a standing ovation, cheering and chanting their names.

Stannis froze still when he comprehended their reception, his eyes shocked. Sansa squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. 

“See,” she said. “They love you well.”

This seemed to bring him back to himself, and he shook his head, leaning close to speak into her ear. “It is you they love, my queen.”

His deep voice set her insides to fluttering, and warmth rose to her cheeks.

They entered the hall in unison, matching each other step for step.

As they walked to the high table - where Shireen and Oberyn were already waiting - there seemed to be no end to the applause, and Sansa smiled so widely that it made her face ache. 

She saw her family in places of honour, all dressed beautifully and looking truly joyful; their grief momentarily put aside. Rickon was a proper little lordling in a velvet doublet - a direwolf stitched on his breast in silver thread - and Bran looked handsome in his white and grey satins, his hair coppery in the candlelight. Arya had clearly been persuaded to wear a gown, and Mother looked resplendent in black and silver silks. She pulled out a handkerchief as Sansa and Stannis drew nearer, wiping delicately at her eyes. Uncle Edmure and his lady wife were sitting by Mother, applauding enthusiastically, and Sansa touched the sapphires at her neck as she met her uncle’s gaze, glad that she had thought to wear his gift. Mother smiled through her tears, nodding approvingly as Sansa walked by.

Sansa was relieved to have her mother’s approval. She had worried that her blue silks, slashed with cloth-of-gold, might have been deemed disrespectful since her father’s passing was still so recent, but Sansa had not been able to bear the thought of wearing black on this night, when she had so many reasons to be happy. 

_Father would have understood._

Uncle Brynden, Brienne, and Aegon were sitting near each other - among the members of the small council, the Seaworths, and Shireen’s ladies - but while everyone surrounding him was cheering wildly - Jeyne loudest of all - Aegon was applauding politely, his face forlorn, his figure somehow diminished.

Sansa’s heart sank at the sight. _He does not know what his fate is to be, now that Stannis has returned._ She resolved to remedy this at the first opportunity, and tried to reach for the joy she had felt a moment ago.

The Tyrells were sitting near the high table in places of honour as well, and Sansa noticed that while Willas, Garlan, and Leonette were all cheering sincerely and enthusiastically, both Mace and Lady Olenna were more subdued. Indeed, Mace looked almost ill.

Ellaria, Obara, and Nymeria all appeared rather thoughtful where they sat with Trystane and a retinue of Dornish knights. Trystane placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly as Sansa watched, before dropping his hand and giving her a wide smile that made him look more handsome than ever, his orange doublet like a blazing sunset. 

Stannis helped Sansa with her chair once they reached their places, but did not sit down himself.

“That’s enough now,” he said, gesturing for the still-cheering court to take their seats at the long tables. It took several moments for the hall to quieten down, and as everyone settled, Sansa was able to appreciate the decorations properly.

Cloth-of-gold banners had been draped everywhere, and she had never seen so many white roses all at once. They looked almost as golden as the banners, bathed as they were in candlelight, and briefly she wondered if the wreath upon her head looked golden too.

“I know you did not expect me to attend this feast,” Stannis began, speaking in a sonorous, carrying voice. “But my lord father taught me that a husband misses his wife’s nameday at his own peril.”

There was an outbreak of surprised, nervous laughter in the hall, and Sansa glanced up at Stannis, a little surprised herself. Stannis never usually softened his speeches with touches of humour, and indeed, his expression was almost perfectly serious. There was only the barest trace of amusement in his eyes, and Sansa doubted there were many present who would recognise it.

“I was delayed by an injury sustained in the Battle of Winterfell,” Stannis went on, growing solemn. “The good people of House Norrey helped me recover, but did not recognise their king. By the time I recovered from my wounds, news of my death had been spread far and wide. But I am here now, hale and hearty, and ready to resume my duties.” He paused to draw breath, looking out at the guests. “I would not be here, however, if not for the bravery of Ser Barristan the Bold. It was for his sake, to honour his memory, that I chose to ride as a mystery knight in the joust, and I hereby dedicate my victory to him.” He reached for a cup that stood ready before him and lifted it. “To Ser Barristan Selmy; may his bold deeds never be forgotten.”

An approving whisper swept through the hall like a breeze on a summer day, and a thousand hands raised a thousand cups, echoing Stannis’s toast.

Sansa lifted her cup, thinking of Ser Barristan’s steady, comforting presence, and his many kindnesses towards her, hoping with all of her heart that he was at rest in the seven heavens. _Be at peace, noble knight,_ she prayed, closing her eyes for a still moment.

After a respectful silence, Stannis asked for the food to be brought out, and the feast began.

“Is that true, Your Grace?” Oberyn asked from his place on Stannis’s left, raising a brow as a servant poured him more wine to go with the first course: thin slivers of swan poached in a sauce of dates and plums. “You were injured?”

Stannis nodded, knife and fork already in hand.

“House Norrey…” Oberyn went on, swirling his wine. “A mountain clan, yes?” He glanced at Sansa.

Sansa gave a small nod, rather impressed that Oberyn had taken the time to learn such a thing. Beside her, Shireen was sitting quite still, staring at her father and Oberyn and not touching her food.

Oberyn took a long drag of his wine. “How did you come to be in the mountains with an injury, I wonder? Winterfell is not in the mountains, last I knew.”

“I did not flee the battle, if that is what you’re implying, Prince Oberyn,” Stannis said calmly, having cleared his plate of the scant few mouthfuls that had been on it. “I was knocked out in Winterfell’s crypt, but I awoke in the mountains. How I got there is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

Oberyn frowned, but did not say anything to this.

“Father,” Shireen said, her voice a touch anxious, “I hope it is well, but Davos found your Norrey squire and invited him to the feast.”

Stannis nodded, and Shireen visibly relaxed. “It’s fine. I believe I will offer him to stay on as my squire if he wishes; he served me well. He’ll make a fine knight.”

For a little while, Stannis answered Shireen’s curious questions about the Norreys: what their home had been like, (“Simple, but comfortable enough.”), whether he would reward them for their aid, (“Of course.”), whether they’d had a maester, (“No.”), and what sort of medicine they’d used. (“Nothing very sophisticated, but it proved effective.”) Sansa was relieved to note that Oberyn’s attention drifted towards his slivers of poached swan as the conversation wore on.

But during the second course - a sweetgrass salad - Oberyn found his voice again. This time he addressed Sansa.

“My nephew does not seem to be enjoying himself, my queen,” he said, swirling his wine and looking at Aegon’s forlorn figure. “Will I have to make a sand snake of him after all, do you think?”

Sansa tensed and looked at Stannis.

“Nephew?” Stannis said, frowning. “Do you speak of Ser Trystane Martell?”

“No no, Your Grace,” Oberyn said, smirking. “I mean Aegon. Of course, he’s not truly my nephew - he has no name - but I’ve taken a liking to the boy. Now that he’s lost his chance to join the Queensguard - Kingsguard? - I was just considering what his fate would be.”

“He hasn’t lost his chance,” Sansa said, struggling to keep her voice calm, looking from Oberyn to Stannis, her heart beating hard. “Has he, Your Grace?” She gave him an imploring look.

Stannis looked back at her, still frowning.

Her heart climbed to her throat as they stared at one another, having a wordless conversation. _Trust me,_ she thought as hard as she could. _Aegon is no threat to you. To us._

Something flickered behind Stannis’s eyes, and Sansa held her breath. Several long seconds went by. He looked down at his cup of water, brow furrowed, and then back up at her. Finally he gave her a blink-and-you-missed-it nod. She closed her eyes and exhaled, heart slowing.

Stannis rose swiftly from his seat, causing the hall to fall silent almost at once.

“It had been brought to my attention that one tourney prize has yet to be settled,” he said, looking over at Aegon. “As I am king, I cannot join the Kingsguard. The opportunity to do so shall therefore pass to the runner-up in the joust: Ser Aegon.”

Once again, the hall erupted into whispers.

Aegon’s eyes widened, and he looked at Brienne and Uncle Brynden as if to ask what to do. They both gestured for him to stand up, which he hurriedly did.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, the whispers dying down as he spoke. “I would be honoured to accept the opportunity.”

“I’m told you lack a name,” Stannis went on. “I give you leave to choose one.”

Sansa looked up at him from her seat, her heart expanding and filling with warmth as she took in his serious countenance. She knew Stannis had offered Aegon the prize because it had been right and just, but _this,_ the offer of a name… It was much more than just. It was _generous._ And he was offering this gift without even being asked. She blinked away the hot sensation in her eyes and looked at Aegon.

Aegon was blinking rapidly too, clearly overwhelmed. But he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, his courage rising to the occasion. “I was raised by Jon Connington, though he was not my father by blood. He was good to me, and I should like to take the name Griffin in his honour, Your Grace.”

“Let it be known,” Stannis proclaimed with a solemn nod. “Before me stands Ser Aegon Griffin.”

The hall burst into applause, but Sansa barely heard it. Aegon had caught her gaze, looking at her with a multitude of emotions playing on his face. There was gratitude and sorrow, love and grief, and most of all, there was a quiet, true joy. He nodded at her, and she nodded back, swallowing several times and wiping at a stray tear.

When the hall finally settled back down, Sansa looked at Stannis. She had felt his eyes on her while she had been looking at Aegon, and a part of her worried what she’d find in his gaze. _Jealousy? Anger?_ She exhaled slowly when their eyes met, relief coursing through her. There was no anger in sight; he was only looking at her the same way she suspected she was looking at him: searchingly.

“Thank you, my love,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear over the chatter in the hall and the clatter of cutlery.

Stannis nodded, and reached for her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart fluttered as he pressed a kiss to it, his lips soft against her skin. She found herself unable to look away for the longest time, her insides leaping with pleasure. But when he finally released her and she was able to breathe normally again, her pleasure was in no way diminished when she looked over at Oberyn and saw the confused disbelief on his face. 

Clearly he had not thought bringing Aegon up would lead to this conclusion.

A little farther away, where the Tyrells were sitting, Willas’s cheerful expression had slipped, revealing something thoughtful and soft beneath. When he noticed Sansa looking at him, he gave a small smile and lifted his cup. She made do with a nod in return, uncertain of her feelings towards him.

They were just starting the third course - bowls of blandissory - when a familiar figure, all in black, sidled into the hall, clearly trying to go unnoticed.

“Jon!” Arya exclaimed, jumping up to embrace him, drawing every eye in the vicinity to herself and the newcomer.

Sansa had forgotten that Arya had told her he might come, and the surprise of seeing him was almost enough to have her jumping from her seat too. She made do with sending him a bright smile instead, her heart swelling with joy. He gave a crooked smile and an awkward wave back, Arya still wrapped tightly about his neck.

Next to her, Stannis was dutifully spooning blandissory into his mouth, but he was also watching Jon with a small frown.

“You heard what happened with Daenerys and Jon, I presume?” Sansa asked, tasting a spoonful of her own blandissory, humming with pleasure when the almond flavour flooded her mouth.

Stannis nodded. “I’m told Lord Commander Snow decided, quite rightly, to uphold his vows to the Night’s Watch, and Daenerys Targaryen decided to go back to Essos for some reason.”

Oberyn made an irritated sound and reached for his cup of wine.

“Yes,” Sansa said, ignoring Oberyn. “She intends to put an end to tyranny, free slaves, and establish a new Valyrian Freehold.”

Scoffing, Stannis stopped eating for long enough to say, “I never would have believed it possible. She was stubborn as a mule about taking the Iron Throne.”

“The Iron Throne is her birthright,” Oberyn said, his tone agitated.

Stannis gave Oberyn a hard look. “House Targaryen forfeited the throne when King Aerys murdered Rickard and Brandon Stark, violating the contract that must always be upheld between liege lord and vassal.”

“Aerys may have forfeited the throne, but his heirs still -”

“Aerys’s _heir_ was the cause of House Targaryen’s downfall as much as he was,” Stannis said sharply. “Something I would have expected you to recall, seeing as Rhaegar’s decision to put your sister aside in favour of another man’s betrothed is what led to Elia’s death.”

Oberyn bared his teeth. “Your brother’s and Tywin Lannister’s vile sack of King’s Landing is what led to her death.”

“It was vile,” Stannis agreed, face still hard as stone. “My brother’s judgment was impaired due to his great love for Lyanna Stark. His hatred for Targaryens knew now reason or restraint. Tywin Lannister had no such excuse, and was lawfully executed for his many crimes.”

“You gave him a quick death,” Oberyn said, curling a fist around the stem of his cup and squeezing hard, his eyes full of grief and rage. “He deserved to suffer.” 

Stannis considered Oberyn for a moment. 

Sansa looked from one man to the other, her heart beating too hard and too fast. Would they end up shouting at one another? Fighting? Oberyn seemed ready to jump from his seat at any moment, his energy as restless as a rattlesnake’s, but Stannis appeared surprisingly restrained, though his eyes were alive with righteous anger.

“Tywin Lannister died after seeing his children tried for treason, incest, and war crimes. He died, not knowing that his grandchildren would be legitimised, thinking that House Lannister of Casterly Rock was ruined forever.” Stannis paused, looked directly into Oberyn’s eyes, and gave a small nod. “He suffered.”

Oberyn swallowed, loosening his grip on his cup. Briefly, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was glaring at Stannis with what seemed like the remnants of his vitriol. “You say your brother’s great love for Lyanna Stark excused his hatred of the Targaryens. What was your excuse? Or do you pretend you would have let Queen Rhaella, Viserys, and Daenerys live if you had found them still on Dragonstone when you took it?”

“Would I have put a mother and two children, one of them an infant, to the sword?” Stannis clenched his jaw. “Is that the question you want to ask? Or do you perhaps want to ask, if given the opportunity, would I have chased them across the Narrow Sea or been content to let them go?”

Oberyn scoffed, but a glimmer of uncertainty appeared in his eyes. “You pretend that it was your doing that the children escaped? It is known that they were smuggled from the island before you even set sail.”

Stannis met Oberyn’s accusing gaze steadily, but did not speak.

After several tense moments, Oberyn took a long, slow breath, the last of his vitriol draining away as he closed his lids.

A course that smelled faintly of blue cheese had arrived in place of the blandissory while Stannis and Oberyn had talked, but Sansa hadn’t heard what it was supposed to be, and it looked rather foreign to her eyes. She and Shireen had both been watching the men in silence, not daring to eat or talk amongst themselves for fear of missing a single word. But now that it seemed they were finished, Sansa drew a deep breath, realising she wanted for air. Beneath the table, she found Stannis’s thigh and squeezed it, intending a show of support.

Stannis glanced at her; eyes surprised. She made to retract her hand, but he grabbed it, holding her in place for a few moments more.

“You should eat,” she reminded him in a soft voice.

“So should you,” he said, squeezing her hand before letting go.

Shireen tasted the dish and made a face. “I think neither of you should eat it,” she said, putting her fork down and frowning.

Oberyn huffed out a laugh, breaking the tension.

Amusement flickered in Stannis’s eyes even as he did the opposite of what Shireen suggested, and took a large bite. “Waste not,” he said once he’d swallowed, his expression deadpan.

Sansa and Shireen exchanged looks, and Sansa knew at once that they both felt the same. It was a feeling that could hardly be described: amusement mixed with a wonderful sensation of relief and joy at having him back. _Different, but still the same._

Stannis asked Shireen about the grey plague and the treatment houses when he was halfway through the strange dish he was persisting in eating, and Shireen grew several inches as she explained what had been done after Stannis left King’s Landing. Sansa had to interject a word here or there when Shireen was being too modest, but for the most part she was content to listen and drink her lemon water.

Oberyn was listening too, though only with half an ear. His eyes strayed frequently to Ellaria, and it was clear where he’d rather be.

A whole roasted aurochs was brought out for the high table once the mysterious dish with the blue cheese had been cleared away, and Stannis sent one of the choicest cuts of meat to Felir Norrey without Sansa even having to suggest it. Fools entertained them; bouncing around, doing impressions, and telling jokes, and a singer stepped forth with a lute to serenade them. One of the songs he sang heaped praise on herself and Shireen, making Sansa blush and give Stannis a sidelong glance, wondering what he thought.

_There came a threat, there came a plot,_   
_The Stranger smiled with glee,_   
_’First the plague will take them,’_   
_’then the dragon queen!’_

_But the King’s Good Bride and His Trueborn Heir,_   
_stood stout against the foes,_   
_’We’ll give them all a potion,’_   
_’and make sure the dragon goes!’_

Stannis caught her looking and sent her a tiny smile, the corners of his mouth curling briefly.

When the desserts started coming - all of them featuring lemons in some way - and the entertainment became even more raucous, many courtiers began to stand up and mingle. Oberyn excused himself politely, and left the high table, sitting down with his paramour instead.

“May I invite Jon to join us?” Sansa asked soon after Oberyn left, eager to speak to Jon and hear his news.

Stannis nodded, digging into the lemon tart that had just been placed before him with a determined look.

Sansa rose from her seat and headed for her family, passing the Tyrells as she went.

“Your Grace,” Willas said as she walked by, rising from his seat as quickly as he could, though he was delayed by his cane. “May I borrow a moment?”

She paused, folding her hands together in front of her. “You may.”

Willas walked towards her, glancing furtively over his shoulder at his father and grandmother. The two were both watching his progress closely, though Lady Olenna was almost managing to look uninterested.

“Were you as surprised as I was today?” he asked once he reached her, his voice light but his gaze searching.

“If you’re asking whether I was aware my husband was alive, and had entered the lists as a mystery knight, then no. I wasn’t.” Sansa kept her tone carefully even.

“But you’re... pleased?” Willas asked, his eyes still watchful.

Her placid expression faltered, and she looked over at the high table and Stannis, her heart jolting. “Yes,” she said, though the word was a poor expression of her feelings. “I’m quite overwhelmed.” 

Willas nodded, seemingly to himself.

“And you, my lord?” she asked, gathering her thoughts with a breath. “Are you pleased?”

For a moment Willas looked startled, but then he blinked and his surprise was gone. “I am,” he said, staring intently at her for several heartbeats. Then he smiled. “I’m happy for you both.” His voice was soft and sincere, his warm honey-brown eyes meeting hers without faltering. “And I hope - I hope we can remain friends.”

The appropriate, courteous words caught in her throat. “You do?” she asked instead, finding herself in need of the truth.

“Of course I do,” Willas said, his face growing serious, remorse clear in his eyes. “I have always liked you, my queen.”

_But never loved._

“My offer still stands,” he went on, a bittersweet smile on his lips. “To show you Highgarden’s animals.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. ”I will be glad to return to them soon.” 

Instinctively, Sansa knew this was the most honest he had ever been in her presence.

“I hope you will enjoy the evening, my lord,” Sansa said, her voice warmer than it had been up until now.

“I’m sure I will,” Willas said with a smile. “I think I will go and speak to Prince Oberyn, if you’ll forgive me?”

She inclined her head, returning his smile. “Of course.”

She made it over to her family without any further delays, a weight she had not realised she had been carrying gone from her heart.

“Sansa!” Rickon exclaimed, the first to notice her approach.

“Sweetling,” Mother said, rising to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you all,” Sansa said, kissing Lady Roslin and Uncle Edmure next. “It’s so lovely to see you both. How is your son faring?”

Roslin was eager to report that the Tully heir was thriving, and Edmure smiled beside her, looking every inch the proud father and lord. He remarked on Sansa’s necklace, and she smiled and thanked him for the generous gift.

Turning to Jon, Sansa saw that he seemed unsure whether to kiss her cheek as the others had. Smiling, she simply embraced him. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Jon held her tight for a moment before releasing her. “Couldn’t miss your nameday feast,” he said, glancing at Arya and her mother and clearing his throat. “Though I hear I missed an interesting tourney.”

“Yes, it was quite the surprise when The Silent Knight revealed himself to be the king!” Edmure said, sipping his wine and giving a little laugh.

“A surprise, indeed,” Mother said, shooting Sansa a curious look.

Sansa lowered her voice and gave her family a condensed account of Stanni’s story. There was a moment of silence when she had finished speaking, and both her mother and Jon seemed especially deep in thought.

“Two mystery knights in one tourney; one of them a king, and the other the queen’s sister: my own niece,” Edmure said, almost as if he hadn’t heard a word of what Sansa had just said about mysterious escapes from crypts, memory loss and mountain clans. “Quite the thing!”

Arya grinned, while Mother’s expression became pinched.

“You should have seen me win the archery competition, Jon,” Arya said happily. “Even Theon wouldn’t have been able to beat me.”

“That’s what I hear,” Jon said, messing Arya’s loose hair up and shooting Sansa his crooked smile.

“Don’t boast, sweetling,” Mother said, frowning at Arya, “it isn’t ladylike.”

“I’m wearing the gown like you wanted, aren’t I?” Arya said, tone disgruntled. “I’m being as ladylike as I can.”

Roslin smiled and looked down, her shoulders shaking with repressed mirth. Bran looked amused too.

Mother sighed and shot Sansa an exasperated glance.

“You look lovely,” Sansa said to Arya, quite truthfully. Her silks were a flattering dove grey, and had been cut to emphasise Arya’s slender figure. And despite Jon’s attempt to mess Arya’s hair up, the long, dark tresses still flowed rather prettily - if haphazardly - down her back.

“I thought I might as well wear it this once,” Arya said with an overly careless shrug. “I’ll be wearing armour all the time once I join the Kingsguard.”

“You’ll have to complete the training, first,” Mother said quickly, her lips thinning. “And you might not meet the required standards.”

Arya rolled her eyes.

“And remember, you promised you’d dance tonight if any of the young men ask you to,” Mother went on.

“I _know_ ,” Arya groaned, her eyes rolling so far back now that Sansa could only really see the whites.

“I’ll dance with you, little sister,” Jon said, his tone affectionate and teasing. 

Arya shot him a glare, and seemed ready to say something scathing.

“That’s settled then,” Sansa said, speaking before Arya had a chance to make Mother’s face even more pinched. “But before you start dancing, Jon, could you join me at the high table?”

Jon’s eyes widened momentarily, his skin flushing as he glanced at the table in question, where Stannis and Shireen appeared deep in conversation. “If you wish.”

Sansa smiled. “I do.”

Jon claimed Oberyn’s vacated seat, and had barely been served a cup of wine when Stannis rounded on him.

“What news from the Wall, Lord Snow?”

Jon launched into a report that Stannis listened to with full attention. Sansa tried to keep up, but after Jon finished speaking of Castle Black and went on to list the repairs needed in other locations along the Wall, she lost track. 

“What did Willas say to you?” Shireen asked quietly.

Sansa looked away from Stannis and Jon and hesitated, examining Shireen’s expression. She looked curious, but not particularly worried. 

“He asked if we could remain friends,” Sansa said.

Shireen frowned, glancing at the Tyrells. “Do you think he meant it?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. Willas was currently smiling at Oberyn. Oberyn looked happier than he had all evening, gesturing with his hands, his eye lighting up as he told some tale. Ellaria was laughing into her cup of wine, her entire body shaking with mirth. “And I think he’s glad to be going home.”

“He asked whether he could write to me,” Shireen said, her expression turning shy. “Do you think I should allow it?”

Sansa hesitated. “I don’t know -”

“Just to talk about books and things,” Shireen hurriedly explained. “I don’t think he’s going to keep trying to,” Shireen blushed, “you know, be _charming_.”

For the first time, Sansa wished Shireen had a septa. “Let me think about it,” she said at length. “You are both unwed, and he is not your betrothed.”

Shireen nodded.

Jon said something about wildlings, and Sansa turned her attention back to the conversation Jon and Stannis were having. After listening for a minute, Sansa ascertained that the wildings had yet to cause any real trouble, though there had been some disputes to do with the Gift. Some northerners didn’t want the wildling settling south of the Wall, and had attempted to run them off.

“Father knew this would happen,” Jon said in the end, shaking his head, eyes growing sad. “He would have known what to do about it too, if he were still here.”

The mention of their father caused a familiar pang of grief and sadness to shoot through Sansa, though she tried to conceal it.

Stannis reached for his cup and lifted it. “To Lord Stark,” he said seriously, looking from Jon to Sansa. “An honourable man.”

Jon looked as startled and gratified as Sansa felt, and they drank to Father in silence.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lord Snow,” Shireen said softly, looking at Jon with kind eyes.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jon said, his tone serious. But then he gave her a small smile. “I’m sure you must be relieved to have reclaimed your father from the Stranger’s clutches.”

“I am,” Shireen said. “But I still - I know what it’s like. To lose a parent.”

Jon looked stricken for a moment, and Sansa guessed he had just realised how recently Shireen had lost her mother. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make light - I’m very sorry for your loss too, Your Grace.”

Shireen accepted his words with a graceful nod.

There was a slightly awkward silence though the hall was ringing with noise.

Fortunately, Alynna, Carellen, and Marissa walked up to the high table at that point, asking whether Shireen might be allowed to join them.

“Go,” Sansa said, smiling when Shireen shot her and Stannis a questioning look. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll come and find you later.”

Following Shireen’s progress away from the table with his eyes, Jon cleared his throat. “Didn’t you once tell me you thought Queen Selyse was poisoned, Your Grace?” he asked in a low voice, glancing at Stannis.

Stannis nodded, his eyes going to the Tyrells. Lady Olenna and Mace still looked subdued. Sansa had never seen Mace eat a cream swan with so little gusto, and they barely seemed aware of the fool that was making Garlan and Leonette cry with laughter. 

“She died in her sleep though she wasn’t ill. And she was always healthy as an ox; never ill except when she was with child.”

“Sweetsleep?” Jon suggested, and Stannis nodded thoughtfully.

Sansa frowned, searching her memory. She was almost sure she had heard of sweetsleep before, but unable to think where or when. “Is sweetsleep a poison?” she asked, looking from Jon to Stannis.

Jon nodded. “At the Wall we use sweetsleep to give men who are mortally wounded the gift of a painless death,” he said, his eyes sad. “It is a gentle poison; in small doses it only puts men to sleep.”

Thinking with a shudder of the only other poison she could name - the strangler - Sansa fleetingly wished Patchface had been murdered with a gentle poison like sweetsleep instead. _Perhaps then I would not still be seeing him in my nightmares…_ But of course it would have been best if he had not been murdered at all.

The fool’s voice rose from the depths of her mind then, the memory causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise on end. 

_“Death can be as sweet as sleep, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh...”_

She shuddered, feeling as if she’d been touched by a ghost. But just as she was about to put it from her mind and ask for more lemon water, her blood froze in her veins.

_Sweet as sleep._

Her heart began to pound.

Patchface had said those words when Sansa, Shireen, and her ladies had been discussing Queen Selyse’s death. Sansa was sure of it. _Sweet as sleep. Sweetsleep._ Could Patchface have known? Could he have seen or heard someone plotting Selyse’s murder? Had he then been murdered in turn to silence him?

“Sansa?” Stannis said in a low, concerned voice. “Are you well? You’re pale.”

She nodded distractedly, but her thoughts continued to race. She tried to remember everything she had ever heard Patchface say, but most of it had just been gibberish. The unremarkable, confused mumblings of a simple fool were hardly worth paying attention to.

 _And yet…_ There had been someone who had paid attention.

Closing her eyes, Sansa concentrated. She could see a feast, much like this one, and Olenna Tyrell’s face going white after Patchface had said something… something about a widowed man and a queen…

Her eyes shot open, seeking the Tyrells.

She stared at Willas, chatting amiably with Oberyn and Ellaria, and then at Garlan and Leonette, still laughing at the fool. _Do they know? Were they involved?_ She did not want to believe it. Sansa’s eyes passed over to Mace and Olenna, her stomach squeezing and turning. It was easier to believe it of them somehow, but no more pleasant.

 _But how could they have poisoned Queen Selyse?_ Sansa wondered, thinking back. _They did not come to King’s Landing until after Selyse died._ They would have had to use a catspaw to accomplish the feat. Her eyes drifted aimlessly from the Tyrells over to her family. Sansa considered asking her mother for advice, but really, it would be much better to speak to Maester Luwin. He knew all about poisons and things like that. He’d know if sweetsleep was the sort of poison that a catspaw might easily use. But Maester Luwin was far away in Winterfell, and she could not speak to him. Her eyes sought Grand Maester Gormon instead, who was speaking genially with Lord Andrew and his wife. _Might I ask him?_

 _But he is a Tyrell,_ she remembered, her stomach turning over once again, an iron fist seizing her heart. He would not answer truthfully. _He might be helping them. Covering for them…_

Or… perhaps _he_ was the catspaw? The thought made her head hurt, and she closed her eyes and was unable to suppress a small, distressed noise.

“Sansa, you are clearly not well,” Stannis said into her ear, sounding even more worried than before. “Is it the baby? Does it hurt?”

“No, I’m well, I promise,” she managed to say, though speaking was an effort.

Jon was looking at her too, just as concerned as Stannis. She tried to smile at them, but judging by their reactions, it was more of a grimace. “If I could just have some water,” she said, determined to collect herself and make it through the rest of this feast.

Stannis barked at the servant standing by with a silver pitcher of lemon water, startling him into spilling some of it. A moment later, her cup was full to the brim.

“Thank you, Myke,” Sansa said to the frightened man, casting Stannis a reproving look.

Stannis did not even seem to notice. He was examining her closely, clearly trying to determine whether she was ill or injured.

Sansa sipped her water, beginning to feel a little steadier as she thought things through.

 _I cannot do anything without proof._ Should she attempt to write a coded letter to Lady Margaery and question her about the matter? Would she be loyal to her father’s House or Robb? Or should Sansa go over to Mace and Olenna and attempt to trick them into confessing?

Stannis was still staring at her, and under the table his hand reached for hers.

Sansa looked into his concerned eyes and felt suddenly lighter.

 _I can tell him about this,_ she realised, drawing in a sharp breath as she was suddenly struck by the full meaning of Stannis’s return. _I do not have to do this - any of this - alone._

She’d had Shireen and Davos before, of course, but this… this was different.

“Could you stand up with me when the dancing starts?” Sansa said, almost dizzy with lightness despite the seriousness of what she had realised. “I’ve… had a thought I wish to share with you. But it would be better if we weren’t overheard.” She trusted Jon, but the high table was still not the best place to have a private conversation. It was too easy for servants or courtiers to walk by and listen in.

Stannis raised his brows, the concern in his eyes replaced by curiosity. “As you wish.”

Sansa blew out a long, steadying breath and nodded.

“I think Arya wishes for me to return,” Jon said some moments later, his tone apologetic. “Would it be appropriate if I gave you your nameday gift now?”

“Oh,” Sansa said, blushing. “You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“Well, it’s too late,” Jon said, his eyes amused. “Rhaegal was very fussy about letting me bring it, so I can’t take it back.”

“What is it?” Sansa asked, wondering what sort of object a dragon could possibly have objected to.

Jon signaled to a servant, and soon Ella was walking into the hall, carrying a bundle of blankets as carefully as if she were cradling a babe.

Sansa looked at Jon, searching for clues, but Jon’s eyes just crinkled as he smiled. “Take a look, Your Grace.”

Ella walked up behind the high table, and handed the bundle over to Sansa’s care. It was warm and there was something soft and alive hidden inside. Her stomach fluttering, she gently shifted the blanket to see.

A wet snout touched her hand, and the tiny pup whimpered.

“Ghost found himself a lady friend north of the Wall,” Jon said, running his hand through his hair a little sheepishly. “There were three pups. I brought you this one, and another for Arya. Robb already has his in Winterfell. He and Lady Margaery send their warmest regards.”

Arya, who had been watching the exchange with interest from her place beside Bran, shot up from her seat. “Is that -?” she exclaimed, excitement shining in her eyes. “Where’s mine?”

Mother looked appalled where she sat, though she said nothing. Her expression soon shifted from motherly concern about poor manners to something much softer, however.

Jon was still grinning and looking from Arya to Sansa with pure joy.

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa whispered, hardly able to believe it. “Is it - I mean, have you named -?”

“It’s a girl,” Jon said, “and you may name her.”

“Hope,” Sansa decided at once. “Her name is Hope.”

A little while later Ella took Hope away to be fed and cared for, and Sansa missed her as soon as she was gone. _Tomorrow I will start taking care of her myself._ Just as she had cared for Lady herself. 

The other guests took Jon’s gift as a cue to start showering Sansa with the gifts they had brought, though many of the gifts were only described, as they could not easily be brought before her.

Paxter promised her a ship, Uncle Edmure brought beautiful, newly made tapestries depicting vivid scenes of victory over the Others in colourful thread, Lord Royce delivered an eagle from her cousin, Lord Arryn, Lord Buckler offered jeweled flasks filled with rich perfumes, and Lord Edgerton of the crownlands promised her several bolts of the finest silks and satins.

Mace and Willas both approached the high table when House Tyrell took its turn, though Mace was still missing his usual well-fed, cheerful disposition.

“My king and queen,” Mace said, clearing his throat several times. “I know this is our beautiful queen’s nameday - and my son will present House Tyrell’s nameday gift shortly - but first I should like to bestow a gift to your unborn child,” he said, lifting his chin and attempting to meet Stannis’s eyes. He immediately switched to looking at Sansa, however, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. “We feel it is our duty - and great privilege - to offer this humble gift due to the special relationship that exists between our two noble Houses.” He paused, swallowing. Sansa resisted the urge to glance at Stannis, though she was curious to see what he could possibly be doing to make Mace so nervous.

Servants from the Tyrell household appeared, carrying something large and apparently very heavy into the hall. Sansa could not see what it was due to the silk sheet that covered it, but the shape of it gave her a fairly good idea of what it might be.

“Behold,” Mace said, shooing the servants away and tugging the silk sheet away from the object with what was probably supposed to be a grand, sweeping gesture, but ended up looking jerky and impatient instead. 

The people nearest the gift _gasped_ , and Sansa’s own breath caught briefly in her throat.

“A crib of solid gold,” Mace said, his voice stronger and more confident, his eyes darting from the high table to the thousand guests, craning their necks to see. “Decorated with precious stones, both onyx and emerald.”

The crib was a work of art. It was a traditional shape for a crib, but more delicate and beautiful than any Sansa had ever seen. The gold glinted softly in the candlelight that filled the hall, and the gemstones sparkled prettily. Roses with emerald leaves, and stags with onyx eyes and antlers had been carved into the metal, though Sansa was too far away to truly appreciate the details.

Stannis was grinding his teeth beside her, and she wondered for a moment what he’d be doing if she’d already told him what she had realised about Patchface and Queen Selyse.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrell,” Stannis said, his voice icier than the Wall. More quietly, to the servants, he said, “remove that,” and waved a hand at the crib. Next he gestured for Mace to approach the table.

Faintly green now, Mace walked right up close. Willas watched from a little ways away, expression unreadable.

“I wish to discuss ‘our special relationship’ on the morrow, Lord Tyrell,” Stannis said without preamble, keeping his voice low so he would not be overheard by those out of the immediate vicinity. “Be in my solar at the hour of the nightingale. Alone.”

Mace swallowed, glancing from Stannis to Sansa as if hoping for some assistance. Sansa met his eyes briefly before looking down at her hands, her insides squirming.

“Of - of course, Your Grace.”

Mace retreated hastily as servants carried the crib out of the hall, and Willas waited for a few moments - eyes following his father’s progress back to his seat - before stepping forth and bowing. All concern was wiped from his face when he straightened his back, shooting Sansa a gentle smile. “I believe you are still owed a nameday gift, my queen. Allow me to present you with a foal sired by Goldmane: the finest palfrey of Highgarden’s stables.” He offered her a scroll, elaborately tied up with silk bows and sealed with the Tyrell rose. “A noble mare; she will grow to be the gentlest, most beautiful creature you could imagine.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, accepting the scroll. She stared at Willas, wondering. Was it possible to smile like he did, to be as kind as he was, and know that his family had murdered at least two innocent people for his chance to get close to the throne?

_Surely not?_

Her eyes bored into the back of his head as he retreated to his seat, and then went to Lady Olenna. The old woman was staring at Sansa shrewdly, and Sansa was quick to avert her gaze.

Oberyn - not to be outdone by his friend - gifted her with a pair of sand steeds - “with manes as red as yours, my queen,” - promising they’d be the fleetest she would ever know.

 _Soon I will have to order more stables built,_ she thought as she thanked the prince.

On and on it went until Sansa’s head was spinning. She was sure she would have enjoyed the gifts more if she weren’t becoming more anxious by the minute to speak to Stannis. But if he was eager to find out what she meant to tell him during the first dance, he hid it well.

Finally, _finally_ , the music swelled and Stannis escorted her to the centre of the floor so they might lead the dance. They nodded to the other couples, and Sansa smiled widely when she passed Arya and Jeyne, paired up with Jon and Devan respectively. She was particularly thrilled to see Brienne standing among the ladies, looking flustered opposite a smiling Garlan Tyrell, and she wondered fleetingly whether Ser Gerald was seething somewhere; on duty and unable to take part.

The dance began.

“I think I know why Patchface was murdered,” she told Stannis at the first opportunity, careful to pitch her voice in a way that would not carry to anyone other than him.

“What?” Stannis said, nearly coming to a complete halt. Thankfully he caught himself and kept dancing, though his expression was stricken.

“I remembered something when Jon mentioned sweetsleep earlier…”

They circled one another, palm to palm, and Sansa quickly explained what she had remembered.

They were pulled apart by the dance, and Sansa made herself smile for Ser Jallen for a moment, though she was hardly able to concentrate on what he said.

“And then he said something about a widowed man and a queen at the Farewell Feast,” she continued without pausing to breathe as Stannis lifted her by the waist, his large hands warm and strong about her. “Lady Olenna heard him, and went as pale as a ghost.”

Stannis’s eyes widened, but said nothing as their conversation was interrupted once again.

Devan smiled at Sansa and complimented her gown, and she told him he had done very well in the joust.

“She left almost at once, too,” Sansa recalled as the dance brought her to Stannis once more. “Cut our conversation short.”

Stannis nodded as they circled one another. “She realised he might be a witness,” he said, his eyes filling with righteous anger. “And then she had him poisoned, and tried to frame Lord Florent for the crime.”

There was a fast section of music, and for a little while Sansa was weaving in between partners so quickly that she couldn’t speak to any of them.

The mention of Lord Florent made another memory surface in Sansa’s mind; a conversation she and Jeyne overheard many months ago. 

“Lord Tyrell was angry with Lord Florent,” she told Stannis when she returned to him. “He was insulted that Lord Florent tried to offer Lady Talla Tarly’s hand to Willas… and…” she furrowed her brow, thinking hard, “... and he was angry that Lord Florent implied there was something suspicious about how quickly the Tyrells came to King’s Landing after Queen Selyse’s death.”

A feverish light blazed into life in Stannis’s eyes as he took in Sansa’s words, his face hardening.

Garlan was the next to interrupt the conversation, telling her with a smile that her wreath of roses suited her well as they performed the required steps. She thanked him, one eye on Stannis.

“I wonder if Maester Gormon may have been the catspaw that slipped Queen Selyse the sweetsleep,” Sansa said when she next had the chance, making sure Garlan was too far away to hear. “It may very well have been someone else. But he’d have access to the poison, wouldn’t he?”

Stannis nodded gravely, the feverish light still burning. “He would.”

“What should we do?” Sansa asked, searching his eyes.

One of the seven Sunderlands spun her around.

“I must think on this,” Stannis said when she landed back in his arms. “But what you’ve told me is valuable, Sansa.” He looked deep into her eyes, inclining his head. “Thank you.”

Had they not been dancing, she would have kissed him.

After the dance ended, Stannis had not even had a chance to offer her his arm to escort her back to the high table when Aegon approached, his jaw set, eyes frequently darting from her face to Stannis’s.

“May I have the next, my queen?” he asked, planting his feet as if to brace himself.

Sansa glanced at Stannis. He’d gone very still, but his face was blank. If he wanted her to say no, he gave no clear indication.

“You may, ser,” Sansa said, keeping her tone as proper and courteous as she could.

Stannis moved to the side, giving Aegon a jerky little nod of acknowledgment. But rather than walking away immediately, he reached for Sansa’s hand and met her eyes as he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. The look he gave her was a searing mixture of passion, possessiveness, and a frank reluctance to part with her, and she blushed hotly, her thoughts drifting towards her bedchamber.

Her cheeks were still warm by the time Stannis walked away.

She and Aegon took their places on the floor, and he stared at her from his position among the line of men as if he were trying to read her mind. She was very glad he would not be able to; her mind was in such a haze of confusion. There were so many different things vying for her attention, so many different emotions battling for dominance as her heart rattled around in her chest.

For the first few steps of the next dance, Aegon said very little. But after the dance parted them, and she’d exchanged a few distracted pleasantries with Ser Gordon, Aegon seemed to find his voice.

“You seem happy, Your Grace,” he said.

“Do I?” she said, blinking.

“Yes.” He swallowed. “I never…” Aegon broke off, interrupted by the need to pass Sansa to the next dancer. She circled and wove and smiled at two Dornishmen, and found herself back with Aegon a few moments later. “I didn’t realise you and the king were in love,” he finished, searching her face.

Sansa didn’t know what to say. Her eyes immediately sought Stannis out. He was conversing with Davos and Marya, but already looking at her, as if he’d known she was about to seek him out.

“I should have known,” Aegon said, shaking his head. “Your grief was so deep. But I thought - or perhaps I hoped - it was all for your lord father.”

Something bittersweet and complicated she could not quite name rose up through the haze of emotion within her, tightening the strings of her heart. “It was for them both.” 

Ser Arvin came along, picked her up and spun her energetically around in time with the music, grinning and complimenting her outrageously. She was a little out of breath when she returned to Aegon.

“Will you stay?” she asked, searching Aegon’s unfocused eyes, her heart beating hard as she tried to collect herself. “Will you truly become a knight of the Kingsguard? You know you don’t have to - not for my sake. Not if it’s not what you really want.”

Aegon seemed to come back to himself and gave her a serious look. “Do you still want me to?”

“You have become a dear friend,” Sansa said with a pang. “I would see you happy.”

The dance went on, and Sansa was passed from partner to partner, smiling and making polite conversation as best she could while her heart pounded, the tension of the unfinished conversation like a vice around her breast.

At the very end, when the music stopped and Aegon gave her a bow, he looked into her eyes, his expression both solemn and fierce. “I owe you my life. Protecting yours would make me very happy, my queen.”

She gave him leave to kiss her hand with a small nod. “Then I want you to,” she said softly, her heart aching.

It was not until Sansa had danced with all the Seaworth men, with Garlan, Trystane, Oberyn, Ser Arvin, Ser Jallen, Ser Gordon, and even Jon, that she was fully able to put all thoughts of poison, as well as Aegon’s sad eyes, fully from her mind. And that was not counting the breaks she took to chat with Mother, her brothers, Arya, Shireen, Jeyne, and all her other friends in between dances. 

It was hard to get a hold of Arya, however. After her first dance with Jon she had agreed to a dance with Trystane, and since then she’d spent half her time on the dance floor with some Dornish knight or other, and the other half with Ellaria, Nymeria, Brienne, and Obara, chatting animatedly.

“She’s a wild one,” Uncle Brynden said, appearing beside Sansa where she stood and waited for her next dance partner to find her, observing her sister.

“‘The wolf blood’,” Sansa said softly, thinking of her father. Shaking her head a little, she looked at Brynden, searching his weathered face. “Do you think she will make it through your training?”

“Of course she will,” Brynden said with a snort, glancing at Sansa before looking back over at Arya. Nymeria was showing Arya a fine dagger, and Arya was examining it closely, asking rapid-fire questions by the look of things. “But I thought perhaps…”

“Yes?”

Brynden turned his head to give Sansa his full attention. “I thought perhaps she would benefit from a more extended training period than Brienne and Aegon, owing to her young age.” He met Sansa’s eyes directly, and seemed to be both asking her a question and searching for the answer at once.

Sansa thought of the overly careless way Arya had shrugged when she’d spoken of spending the rest of her life in armour. “I think that would be wise,” she said, nodding.

Her great-uncle smiled, the corners of his eyes a great spider’s web of crinkles.

They spoke for a little longer, discussing Lord Royce and her cousin’s gift of an eagle, but soon her next partner found her, and she was swept off to the dance floor once more.

Every once in a while Sansa would seek Stannis in the crowd - watching his progress as he dutifully made the rounds - just to reassure herself that he was _there,_ and that she hadn’t dreamt it all. Each time her eyes sought his, she would find him already looking at her, his gaze just as focused and intense as always.

She had just exchanged such a look with him when Lady Olenna suddenly stepped into Sansa’s path, cornering her where the crowd was thinnest, a frown on her lips, her eyes sharp and watchful.

“Your Grace,” she said.

Heart already quickening its pace, Sansa inclined her head. “Lady Olenna.”

“Was it my imagination, or did your husband mislike my son’s gift?”

“The gift was lovely,” Sansa said, forcing a smile.

Olenna’s lips thinned until there was nothing left of them to be seen, and she took a step closer to Sansa, pinning her in place with a searching gaze. “Willas tells me you’re pleased His Dour Grace is back.”

“Yes of course,” Sansa said, startled.

Olenna narrowed her eyes. “Truly? You were the reigning queen before he took that helm off.” She took a step even closer, and Sansa dutifully lowered her head to her level so they were almost nose to nose. “Are you really content to step aside? To become a pretty flower to decorate his crown once more?”

Sansa froze, her heart racing hard, her mind spinning. What was the point of asking such a question? Stannis was back, and even if Sansa had wanted to cling to the power she had been temporarily given, there was no way... unless...

Eyes widening, Sansa stared at Olenna. _She wouldn’t._ But the instinctive denial was followed by relentless reason; a voice like Stannis’s whispering, _yes she would._

“I believe you’ve had one too many cups of wine, my lady,” Sansa said, meeting Olenna’s eyes directly, imagining that she could turn her gaze to Valyrian steel like Stannis could. “I’m no pretty flower; I am a Stark of Winterfell. A wolf. And I love my husband, Lady Olenna. Throne or no throne. Crown or no crown.”

Olenna stared at her for a long moment, eyes still searching, but Sansa did not waver, lifting her chin stubbornly rather than averting her gaze. 

Eventually, Olenna raised a brow. “Wolf indeed,” she said, the corners of her lips lifting. “Good for you.”

Exhaling slowly as Olenna turned and swept away, Sansa searched for Stannis. As always, he was already looking at her, but this time his brow was marred with concern. She sent him a reassuring smile and started to make her way towards him, her mind already made up. She’d help him finish the rounds, and perhaps they’d share the final dance. In any case, she would not let him out of her sight for the rest of the feast.

***

It was perhaps a little past the hour of the bat when Sansa and Stannis returned to her bedchamber, the fire in the hearth burning low as they collapsed into bed after hurriedly helping each other get free of their fine clothing. Sansa’s wreath of roses and Stannis’s circlet of gold ended up on the table beside her bed, a few white petals coming loose and fluttering to the floor.

They traded languorous kisses, long limbs entwining as he slipped inside to love her, seeking warmth and comfort that she was only too happy to provide and seek in her turn.

His lips were hot against her neck as his breathing sped up, his body rolling over hers like a wave, his manhood filling her deliciously while her legs wrapped tightly around him; holding him close as her fingers clutched sharp shoulder blades. And then she was riding him, leaning in to press her chest to his and kiss him full on the mouth, rocking gently as his hands buried themselves in her hair, stroked her back,.palmed her rear; fingers digging into soft flesh, anchoring them both.

They shuddered and shook, finding their pleasure with long moans and sighs, words of love lingering on their lips before being swallowed up by kisses.

As her breathing returned to normal, Sansa could hardly believe how easy it was; how sweet. As if they’d lain together like this thousands of times.

After cleaning up they settled into a comfortable embrace, Stannis behind her, Sansa’s back flush against his chest. It was good and warm, and every last trace of tension drained from her body, a feeling of safety settling over her.

“I’ve had an idea,” Stannis said into her ear when sleep had almost claimed her, his breath warm against her skin. “A way of making Mace confess.”

Wide awake now, Sansa raised her head, twisting her neck in an attempt to look at him. In the near pitch darkness, there was not much to see. “Yes?”

“Using the information you gave me, and the things I overheard while I was disguised, I should be able to convince him that I know everything. The man is an oaf. Given the right incentive, he’ll talk.”

“Incentive?”

“The marriage pact. He’s murdered to put the blood of his blood on the Iron Throne; he won’t want to lose that agreement now that all his other plots have come to naught.”

Sansa thought it over. _It might work._ “But I thought… “ she dropped her head, her neck tiring, “I thought it was Lady Olenna who was behind it all, truly? Didn’t you say Willas’s attempts to secure my hand or Shireen’s had been her idea? And -” She bit her lip, hesitating.

“And?”

Blowing out a breath, Sansa told Stannis of the conversation she’d had with Olenna at the feast.

For a moment, Stannis did nothing but grind his teeth. “Mace will give her up,” he eventually said, a seething anger in his voice. “To keep the marriage pact in place, he’d sell his own mother. I’m sure of it.” 

A pang of discomfort shot through Sansa’s stomach. “What will happen to her if he does?”

“By rights there should be a trial. I should execute them both for treason,” Stannis said, his body tensing, his breathing coming in sharp fits and bursts. “Take Highgarden from the Tyrells and give the seat to a more worthy House.”

“Would that be wise?” Sansa whispered, more discomfort settling in her stomach. She knew Stannis was not wrong to want justice after what had been done to Queen Selyse and Patchface, and after her conversation with Olenna she was less fond of her than ever... but was Stannis thinking only of justice, or had his thoughts turned towards revenge?

“It would be lawful.”

“I know,” Sansa said, worrying at her lip. “But the realm is recovering from a long winter, a terrible plague, and a hard war. House Tyrell is powerful, and has powerful allies besides. Paxter Redwyne’s men are perhaps the freshest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms aside from the Dornish, and who knows what Willas, Garlan, and Loras might do if you executed their father and grandmother? Stripped them of their birthright?” And what would Robb do?

Stannis grunted. But it was not a dismissive sort of grunt.

Her heart picked up its pace. _He’s listening._ “Would it not be better for the realm if this matter were settled more privately? Surely it would be best if we could avoid some ill-fated rebellion?”

With a thoughtful sound, Stannis shifted to hold her even closer, his arm snaking around her middle. “Shall I challenge Mace to a duel?” he murmured, scoffing.

“No,” Sansa said, sinking further into his embrace with a sigh. “It’s Lady Olenna you truly want.”

“And I’ll have her if Mace gives testimony against her.”

“But he’ll only give that testimony if you promise to uphold the marriage pact,” Sansa pointed out. “You cannot give him your word and then betray him, and you cannot uphold the marriage pact if you destroy House Tyrell and strip the family of their keep and their lands. We cannot marry our heir to a disgraced lady.”

Another grunt.

Sansa held her breath, sensing that he was thinking.

“Do you believe that if Lady Olenna is removed, the rest of the family will cease their relentless scheming?” he asked after a while.

Sansa thought of Willas and his desire to return to Highgarden and his animals; his request to exchange innocent letters about books with Shireen. Willas, who made a friend of the man who crippled him, and despite not being in love with either herself or Shireen, had never been anything but kind to them.

“I think it’s possible,” she said slowly, hoping that she wasn’t wrong. “And Mace will have no choice but to fall in line if you’ve forced a confession from him, won’t he?” Sansa said, her heart still beating hard. “He won’t want to lose the pact.”

“And the rest of them?”

Sansa thought of Margaery; high-spirited and full of joy, ready to marry Robb despite her family’s ambitions, and of Garlan; losing gracefully to Brienne in the melee, and then going on to ask her to dance with a wide smile. She did not know Loras well enough to truly predict his actions, but he had been sweet to her at the Hand’s Tourney, offering her a red rose rather than a white one like he’d given to the other ladies. _He was close to Renly, too,_ she recalled.

She did not believe that these things made them wholly good; she understood that beneath their smiles they were constantly working to increase their family’s influence and power, but what child would not try to please their parents? Their grandmother? Sansa herself had accepted Stannis’s proposal mostly because of Mother and Father. _Should Willas, Garlan, and Loras not have a chance to prove themselves, free of their grandmother’s influence?_

“I think they are like me or you,” she whispered. “They wish to please their family. Bring honour to their House.”

There was a long, drawn out silence. The fire in the hearth had nearly burnt itself out, and the soft licks of dying flames were mere whispers.

“Stannis?” she said, a little worried that he’d fallen asleep. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said suddenly, startling her. “Perhaps it would be best if this matter were resolved quietly.” He tightened his arm a little. “But I will have justice.” 

The word _justice_ rang with a resolve and a conviction that promised a plan, but Sansa was almost afraid to ask. Summoning her courage, she twisted her body around to face him, looking into his eyes though they were all in shadow. 

“How?” She bit her lip. “If it all goes to plan, if Mace gives Lady Olenna up… how will you have justice without a trial?”

“I will offer her a choice,” Stannis said, his voice cool and unshakably certain.

In her mind’s eye, Sansa saw the hard, judging face of the Father, carrying his scales. The little hairs all over her body stood on end, and she shivered. “What choice?”

“Sweetsleep or the strangler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is the end! Only an epilogue to go, and that's it.
> 
> Thank you all again for reading along, for commenting, for leaving kudos, and even just lurking! You guys have made the process of sharing this story so immensely enjoyable, and I appreciate you to the moon and back. ♥


	38. Epilogue

The first time it happened the Red Keep was still abuzz with the news that Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, had died in her sleep a week after King Stannis returned from the dead.

“Old bird, weren’t she?” a passing servant said to his companion. “Only natural.” 

Sansa didn’t know his name, but thought she’d seen him in the kitchens. He smelled like bacon grease and sweat, and Sansa’s borrowed nose immediately approved.

“I ‘eard she was fine at the queen’s nameday feast,'' his companion said, brow furrowed. He smelled like horse flesh and leather, which was not a bad smell either. After a moment’s consideration Sansa recognised him as one of the stable hands. She was almost certain his name was Lomas.

“Was she, though?” Bacon said, scratching thoughtfully at his ear. “Myke said she looked sickly-like most of the night.”

“But then why did the Tyrells all leave in such a hurry? Eh? And why did Grand Maester Gormon suddenly decide to leave too? It’s all mighty suspicious if you ask me.”

Bacon rolled his eyes. “Who’s asking you?” He sighed. “I ‘eard the Tyrells left right quick because they wanted to have the funeral in Highgarden. And the old maester’s s’posed to be going off to write some book in the Citadel, ain’t he?”

This avalanche of reason seemed to stump Lomas, and he looked around, as if to search for his next argument. Unfortunately, he spotted Sansa where she was hiding beneath a chair, and his eyes widened.

“Ain’t that the queen’s new pup?” Lomas asked, elbowing Bacon.

“Leave ‘er,” Bacon said, grabbing Lomas as he started walking towards Sansa’s hiding place. “I’ll tell Ella she’s hiding under there. She’ll fetch ‘er.”

Lomas didn’t seem to like this idea, he was staring at Sansa with a look of longing. “Never seen a direwolf pup up close,” he muttered. More loudly he said, “but wouldn’t the queen be glad? Grateful? If we returned it to her?”

“S’not your place,” Bacon hissed, smacking Leather. “Or mine.”

They left the room shortly after that, and Sansa’s mind drifted away. When she woke up, she barely recalled the strange dream, though she found herself oddly preoccupied with learning more of the kitchen staff’s names that day.

The second time it happened, several weeks had gone by, and Sansa had fallen asleep with a smile. Her belly had started to swell properly at last, and Stannis had spent the last minutes before she’d nodded off kissing every inch of it, tickling her with his whiskers.

In the dream, she was with Arya’s Aliandra, who was playfully yapping and nipping at her tail. Sansa didn’t feel like playing, but couldn’t explain that to Aliandra, who clearly thought she was still frolicking with Hope.

“Aliandra, to me,” Arya’s voice came, causing Aliandra to go raise her head and stop moving. Before Arya had a chance to repeat herself Aliandra scrambled to run off, slipping clumsily on the rushes on the floor.

“There you are,” Arya said, coming into view and picking Aliandra up. “You weren’t fighting with Hope, were you?”

Sansa tilted her head to the side, but remained where she was. Aliandra gave a soft whine.

“No? Only playing? Good girl,” Arya cooed, burying her face in Aliandra’s fur. “Sisters shouldn’t fight,” she said, using a tone of voice that reminded Sansa of Father. “They should protect each other. Always.”

Sansa got up and walked over to Arya, wishing she could embrace her. But the best she could do in her current form was butt her head against Arya’s leg as affectionately as she could. Arya stooped to scratch behind Sansa’s ears, smiling.

“They’ve grown so much since they arrived,” a familiar male voice said from the doorway. _Aegon._

“Grown? They’re still _tiny_ ,” Arya said, looking over her shoulder at him. “It will be ages before they’re anywhere near as big as Summer and Shaggydog.”

Aegon got down on his haunches and looked into Sansa’s eyes. “May I?” he asked seriously, holding out his hand for her to sniff.

Sansa bumped her nose against the offered hand, giving him permission to stroke her fur. She had seen Aegon pet Hope before, and knew he was always gentle.

“They’re beautiful creatures,” Aegon murmured, stroking her with a sure, warm hand.

“Hope is more beautiful,” Arya said, averting her eyes from Aegon and holding Aliandra closer. Something about her tone gave Sansa the feeling that Arya wasn’t truly speaking about Hope.

Aegon considered the two wolves for a moment. Aliandra had more grey fur than white, and a patch of black between her eyes. Hope was white - though not quite as white as Ghost - with streaks of grey framing her face and running down her flank.

“I think they’re equally beautiful,” Aegon said, glancing up at Arya with a small smile.

Arya rolled her eyes and scoffed, but her cheeks reddened a little too. “No you don’t.”

“They each have their own unique charm,” Aegon said, seemingly unbothered by Arya’s contradiction. “But they are both magnificent.”

Red as an apple, Arya busied herself with putting Aliandra down. “You know what’s _really_ magnificent? That story you told me about Braavos. Could you tell me again?”

Aegon gave Sansa one last gentle pat to her flank and rose up. “Certainly, my lady.”

“I’ve told you a million times not to call me that,” Arya said, glaring.

“Habit,” Aegon said apologetically, holding his palms up in a gesture of surrender.

They walked away, Aliandra on Arya’s heels, the sound of Aegon’s voice as he began his story strong at first, but quickly growing fainter.

The day after Sansa had that dream, she found her sister and hugged her as tightly as she could, while Arya spluttered and asked why on earth Sansa was trying to crush her to death.

“I just love you,” Sansa had said, clinging tighter.

“Being pregnant makes you crazy,” Arya muttered, but melted into the embrace nonetheless.

The third time it happened, Sansa found herself in Stannis’s solar. Stannis was there, bent over some papers at his desk, several candles lit all around him. Outside the window, the sky was pitch black. It was odd to see him there; he’d been right beside her in their bed when she’d fallen asleep.

She must have made some sort of sound, because Stannis looked up and straight at her. 

“Hope?” he said. “Shouldn’t you be with Sansa?”

_Shouldn’t you?_

Stannis grimaced as if he’d heard the thought. “I’ll go back to bed in a moment,” he muttered, eyes back on the papers in front of him.

Sansa gave a little whine, but knew she wouldn’t have much luck persuading him to abandon his work. Instead she shuffled over to him, placing a paw on his knee and giving him an imploring look. She’d seen Hope do it often enough; hopefully it would produce the same result as it usually did.

With an exasperated breath, Stannis scooped her up and deposited her on his lap. “Be still and quiet,” he said in a stern voice, “or it’s back on the floor with you.”

Sansa curled up happily, settling herself in for the long haul.

For several minutes Stannis worked steadily, ignoring her. She had almost dozed off - wondering what happened when one fell asleep in a dream - when his left hand started to stroke her; heavy and comforting and familiar.

“You’re getting to be too big for this,” he said in a low voice. “At the rate you’re growing, it will soon cost more to feed you than a troop of knights.”

She huffed out an offended sound.

Stannis laughed: a short, quiet noise in the still of the night, but capable of lighting Sansa up from within.

It was odd following him back to bed and seeing herself already lying there, fast asleep. Stannis trod carefully, hardly making a noise as he shed his clothes and got under the covers. Sansa watched, her heart swelling, as Stannis pressed a kiss to her brow as she slept, gently brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

Unable to suppress the urge to show him some affection in return, she jumped up on the bed and licked Stannis’s cheek, earning a huff and several stern admonitions to get down. She was ultimately victorious, however, as Stannis relented and allowed her to stay.

When Sansa woke up, she was not surprised to find Hope on the bed - even though it was not something she and Stannis usually allowed - and the suspicion that she had been nursing for weeks solidified into knowledge.

_The dreams are real._

After that, Sansa dreamed she was Hope so often that she lost track. They were pleasant dreams, and sometimes quite amusing. Ser Gerald was convinced Hope was possessed by some mischievous sprite, for Sansa could never resist teasing him when the opportunity presented itself. (Harmless little things like moving his possessions around, or hiding behind doors or curtains and then jumping out to startle him.) She made sure never to do so if anyone else was near, however, which was what made it so amusing. No one would believe Ser Gerald’s stories of Hope’s tricks, and Brienne could often be found rolling her eyes while he gestured wildly, his face growing red. 

The dreams became more vivid with every week that brought her closer to the birthing bed, and a part of her worried that they would stop after she had the baby.

To her great relief, they did not.

***

_'But lo, behold, what doth I see?'_  
 _the Silent Knight rode forth,_  
 _’tis I, your king, my sweet lady,_  
 _my Good Queen from the north.'_

“Sansa,” Stannis said, entering the bedchamber with a grimace. “Must you sing that nonsense to him?”

“It’s his favourite,” Sansa said, tearing her eyes from the infant in her arms to smile up at her husband. 

“He’s all of a month old,” Stannis shook his head, his face flushing, “he doesn’t know the difference between one song and the next.”

Hope raised her head from her place at Sansa’s feet, a soft whine issuing from her. She was nearly the size of a regular wolf now, too heavy to be picked up. And yet Sansa was sure she was not done growing.

“Hope likes it too,” Sansa said, still smiling.

The grimace melted away, replaced by resignation and a soft look as Stannis settled himself amongst the pillows and blankets on the bed beside her. “May I hold him?” he murmured.

Steffon had - after fussing for nearly two hours straight - fallen asleep at her breast, and Sansa carefully transferred him into his father’s arms, wiping a trickle of milk from his chin as she did.

Stannis cradled him with painstaking care, concentration shining from his eyes as he shifted around to find a comfortable, secure hold. 

Sansa shifted to find her own place next to them, smiling softly at the pair. Seeing a man of Stannis’s stature - no longer as painfully thin as he had been after his return - holding such a tiny, delicate baby always tugged at her heartstrings. Especially because Stannis tended to look so awestruck by his son; nearly as awestruck as he had the very first time he’d laid eyes on him.

For all their difference in size, they were still alike, however. Both black of hair and strong of jaw, their eyes the same shape. Steffon seemed to have inherited Sansa’s nose and her high cheekbones - though it was hard to tell with his sweet, chubby cheeks - and she wondered whether he would have her blue eyes or Stannis’s. They had been light at first, but they had darkened a little of late. Mother said the true colour would not reveal itself for some time yet. 

Sansa leaned against Stannis and closed her eyes, simply enjoying the stillness of being together with no interruptions or duties getting in the way, cherishing the rare moment.

“Anything new?” she asked at length, curiosity compelling her to speak. It was odd when she couldn’t attend small council meetings. She usually always went, but today Steffon had been so fussy, and she hadn’t wanted to leave him with his nurse.

“Hm?”

“The meeting?” Sansa said, raising her voice just a little, not wishing to startle Steffon awake.

“Fine. All fine.” Stannis continued to stare at his sleeping son in fascination. “Grand Maester Evin said we’ve had a raven from Highgarden. A wedding invitation.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, Willas Tyrell is to marry Arianne Martell,” he said, snorting. “That should make for an interesting wedding feast.”

Sansa nodded to herself, recalling Varys’s last report. He’d said House Martell and House Tyrell had been corresponding unusually much of late. 

“Hopefully this alliance will heal some old wounds,” she said softly, keeping a watchful eye on Steffon. He twitched in his sleep, his mouth suckling on nothing a few times before stilling once more. Unable to resist, she lowered her nose to the top of his head and inhaled deeply. She had not known before Steffon was born that there would ever be a scent she loved more than the smells of Winterfell. _I should have believed Jeyne._ Jeyne had sworn, ever since her little Marianna was born, that there was nothing in the world that smelled as good as the top of her little one’s head.

“I doubt that’s the sole aim,” Stannis said, scoffing. “Doran will be thinking about the marriage pact. Should Arianne produce a daughter there is a good chance the girl will be queen.”

“Even so,” Sansa said, “I think it’s a good match. Willas and Oberyn are good friends, after all. They’ll be pleased to be brothers.” She paused for a moment. “When is it to take place?”

“A month from now,” Stannis said, glancing at Sansa. “Once the Tyrells finish their mourning.” 

A brief tension, a jarring note plucked on a harp string, disturbed Sansa’s peace. But with a breath in and out she put Lady Olenna’s fate from her mind. _She had a queen murdered. And an innocent fool._

“Shall we attend?”

Stannis was looking at Steffon again. “No.” The word came quickly and decisively. 

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

A stubborn scowl appeared on her husband’s face. “Steffon will not be old enough to travel, and I would not leave him.” He stroked their son’s cheek with a thumb that appeared comically large next to Steffon’s little nose.

“I’m sure my brother and Lady Margaery will be going, and their little Eddard is only a little older than Steffon.” In truth, Sansa _wasn’t_ sure her brother would chance the journey. But his last letter had been full of hope, optimism, and tales of how he had learned to do all manner of things one-handed, so she thought it was at least _likely_ that he might wish to make Lady Margaery happy by attending her brother’s wedding.

“Do you really wish to go?” Stannis asked, shooting her an incredulous look.

Sansa looked at Steffon and considered the dangers of travel. All the things that might go wrong. He might take a chill, or be injured in some carriage mishap. With her insides clenching up at the very _thought_ of Steffon being hurt, she shook her head. “No, not really. But perhaps Shireen would like to?”

Stannis grunted, glancing briefly at her to prompt her to go on.

“She and Willas exchange letters. I think she’d want to wish him well,” Sansa went on, thinking out loud. “And we could send both Ser Allard and Arya with her. Arya would enjoy some travel, I’m sure. And she’d like to see Nymeria and Obara again.”

“If Shireen wishes to go, I won’t raise objections.”

“She could use the opportunity to visit the Citadel, too,” Sansa said, warming up to her idea. “She’s been complaining that the royal library needs restocking.”

“Hm,” Stannis said, sounding much less approving. “Would that be wise? Maester Gormon is in the Citadel.”

“I doubt their paths would cross,” Sansa said lightly. “I’m sure Maester Gormon has better things to do than man a stall in the Scribe’s Hearth.”

Stannis did not look convinced.

She understood his reluctance. The matter of Maester Gormon was a complicated one, however. Mace Tyrell had insisted that the catspaw that had poisoned both Queen Selyse and Patchface had been a Faceless Man, but Stannis had not wished to take the risk that Mace might be lying to protect his kin. Stannis had therefore sent Maester Gormon away, insisting that he should write a book detailing the outbreak of the grey plague and its treatment.

“I will not have him near me or mine,” he’d said at the time, his face like stone, his tone final.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, Sansa touched Stannis’s cheek. “I do not think Maester Gormon could have used a poison like the strangler,” she said quietly. Sweetsleep, perhaps. But not the strangler. “He was always kind to me. And Shireen.”

“Shireen is a princess, and you are a queen,” Stannis said. “He had every reason to be kind to you, and no reason at all to be kind to Patchface.” Stannis swallowed and looked away from her. Staring at Steffon intently; his arms visibly tightened around their son.

Sansa watched him for a long moment, considering his words and the tension around his eyes. “What did Patchface mean to you?” she asked quietly, wondering why she had never thought to ask before. She had always assumed that Patchface had been important to Shireen, and Shireen only. But Shireen had once said Patchface had always been with her. Ever since she could remember. And that meant Stannis must have known the fool before she did.

Stannis went very still. “He was my daughter’s fool.”

“Yes, but how did he come to be in your service?” Sansa pressed on.

The tension around his eyes was still there, even though he closed them.

There was a long pause.

Eventually he sighed. “I suppose you know the story of how my parents died?”

She gave a nod, her stomach twisting as it always did at the thought of young Robert and Stannis watching the _Windproud_ go down from the parapets of Storm’s End. Helpless to do anything but witness the tragedy. 

“They were returning from Essos - King Aerys had sent them to Volantis,” Stannis said, speaking slowly. “My lord father was to find Prince Rhaegar a worthy bride. Someone ‘of noble birth from an old Valyrian bloodline’.” Clenching his jaw, he drew in a long breath. “In this he failed. But he succeeded in buying Patchface’s freedom. Patchface was only a boy, but a talented fool, according to a letter my father wrote. He - my father - hoped Patchface would teach me to laugh.” Stannis paused for a long moment. Then, in a much quicker, more detached tone of voice he said, “Patchface was the only one who survived when the _Windproud_ sank, but the ordeal robbed him of his wits.”

Sansa had long ago become accustomed to reading between the lines of what Stannis said, and she understood exactly what he had just told her. 

Patchface had been Lord Steffon’s final gift. 

A tether. 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she kissed Stannis’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

Hope rose up from her place at the foot of the bed and walked up to curl up beside Stannis, licking the other cheek.

Uncharacteristically, Stannis had no words of admonition for Hope. He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, his muscles tensing and relaxing. In his arms Steffon scrunched his little face up and gave an angry mewl, threatening to wake.

Hope whimpered with concern, nosing the blanket Steffon was wrapped in.

“Here,” Sansa said, taking Steffon back into her arms and soothing him as best she could.

Stannis ended up with Hope on top of him as the wolf tried to chase her charge, but she settled down quickly when Stannis told her to be still, and that Steffon was quite well and in need of no aid. 

He glanced at Sansa, shaking his head. “I’ve never known such a creature.”

Rocking Steffon back into a deep slumber, Sansa bit her lip. This felt like the moment she had been waiting for; her chance to tell him of her dreams. _But will he believe me?_

“What do you mean?” she asked, testing the waters.

Stannis frowned at her. “Just what I said; I’ve never seen her equal.”

“In what way?”

Stannis’s frown deepened. “She seems… more intelligent than any wolf or hound I’ve known. Sometimes it is as if she understands every word I say.”

“Especially when she visits you at night?” Sansa asked, searching his face.

“Yes,” Stannis said, nodding. He froze halfway through his second nod however, his eyes narrowing. “How do you -?”

“I have these dreams,” Sansa quickly admitted, before her courage failed her. “I dream that I am her.”

“Dreams.” His voice was flat, but there was a hint of a question in his sharp gaze.

Her cheeks warmed. “Yes,” she went on, something stubborn rising within her. “That’s how I know you left bed last night - and the two nights before that - to work in your solar. I dreamed I was Hope, and I went to find you.”

Stannis stared at her. “You believe the dreams are real?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “ _Did_ you leave bed to go work in your solar?”

“Yes,” Stannis said, moving his head when Hope tried to lick his face, sending the wolf a brief, not-really-irritated look. “But that proves nothing. You might have awoken to find me gone.”

“Then how do I know that Uncle Brynden came to see you while you were working last night, and that you offered him a cup of lemon water, but he said he’d brought his own and drank something from a flask?”

More staring.

“I’m certain the dreams are real,” she said, keeping her voice quiet but firm.

Stannis looked from her to Hope and back, his expression turning thoughtful. “I see.”

“I’ve been reading the ancient ballads,” Sansa forged on. “About Gaven Greywolf and the War of the Wolves -”

“You think you’re a skinchanger?” Stannis asked, his brows rising. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, her heart beating hard as she watched for his reaction.

Slowly, Stannis’s brows sank back down, and he considered her for a long moment. 

“Next time you have one of these dreams you must find me,” he said at length. “And give me some signal.”

Sansa’s chest suddenly felt too full, too _much_. “You believe me?”

“I believe this bears further investigation,” he said, nodding.

Gently - as she was still cradling Steffon in her arms, and Stannis had his own arms full of Hope - Sansa leaned in to kiss Stannis. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Stannis returned the kiss, and briefly freed a hand to stroke first her cheek, and then Steffon’s.

Their son made a small noise in his sleep, and they both looked at him, eyes lingering.

It was strange and wonderful, but even though Sansa knew how many eyelashes he had, knew every vein that traversed his gossamer-thin eyelids, every perfect imperfection of his skin, and the shape of each little fingernail; she never grew tired of gazing upon him.

It struck her then, more powerfully than it ever had before, that if Stannis had truly died, he never would have met his son. He would never have had the chance to map his face like she had, and get to know and love every detail. He would never have seen him grow, never seen him become a man. And Steffon would never have had a chance to get to know his father, study his face in turn, emulate his mannerisms, and learn to love and respect him as a son should.

She squeezed her eyes shut. _Gods._

But Stannis had returned, she reminded herself firmly, trying to calm her raging heartbeat, her uneven breathing. He had returned, and Steffon would have a chance to grow up as Sansa had, knowing he had a mother and a father who loved him and each other. Knowing he had a sister who loved him, and hopefully more siblings in the future. _A true family._

Not lost like Stannis’s parents, but returned and whole.

“I’m so glad you’re here with us,” Sansa said, swallowing several times and looking at Stannis, struggling to contain the emotion that had welled up like a storm on a clear day, squeezing at her heart and stinging her eyes. “I’m so glad you found your way back.”

“It was for you,” Stannis said in a hoarse whisper, kissing her brow. He looked unflinchingly into her eyes, speaking as if his words were unshakable fact. “You and Shireen were the first memories that made me want to recall more of who I was, not less.”

Sansa smiled at him, blinking back tears. “Truly?”

He nodded. In his eyes there was a deep, fierce passion that she had seen more and more often ever since his return. “I love you, Sansa.”

She closed her eyes and savoured the words, exhaling a shuddered breath. “I love you, too.”

They kissed. It was a sweet, lingering kiss, and at its end Stannis leaned his forehead against hers, murmuring two words that Sansa might have mistaken for a prayer if she didn’t know that Stannis never prayed.

“My queen.”

****

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for making the experience of sharing this story so wonderful. Your comments and kudos have been like little nuggets of gold, making the past nine months so much more bearable than they otherwise might have been, due to one thing and another.
> 
> Special thanks to [BlueCichlid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid) again, for encouraging me when I talked to her about this story ages ago, and for giving me useful ideas. And special thanks to those of you who have been reading along from the start and commenting on every chapter - you are the true heroes of fandom; the fuel and the fire. ♥


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